When Darkness Sings
by Spirit of the Shrine
Summary: When young Hadrian Potter comes into contact with a strange, blank notebook he unlocks the discovery of a lifetime. The journal marks the start of a series of events which will color his life in shifting grey hues in a world which is black and white. In a world where danger lurks at every turn, where survival is paramount, the truth is all that shall remain.
1. Beginnings of Change

**Author's Note**: This is the first installment of _'When Darkness Sings._'

**Summary**: During his childhood, Hadrian Potter comes into contact with a strange, blank notebook with only three letters engraved within: TMR. The discovery of the journal only marks the start of a series of events which will color his life in shifting grey hues in a world which is black and white.

**Warnings**: There will be mentions of slash, though not for some time considering Harry is...very young. Very, very young. There will be mentions of abuse, some which will be witnessed, and unexplained happenings caused by a force we all know. This _is _a Harry/Tom story, though, in later chapters, other characters will come into being since this story will reach his years in Hogwarts. However, if I put it all in _this _story, or if I break it up, has not been determined yet.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Harry Potter. This will not be repeated.

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**Rating**: **T**

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There were two things Harry was certain of in life. He _despised _the Dursleys, guardians until he was eighteen, and he wanted to _eat _something.

He sat curled up on his cot, a small spider dancing over pale fingers, and he eyed it with envy. He lifted his hand, tilting it upside-down to watch the eight-legged critter glide towards his bed with a silken web keeping it aloft, with a light frown marring his features. Splaying his fingers, emerald eyes glowing in the darkness of the cupboard, he smiled. Another spider sat in his lap, still with a line of red dancing across its back, but Harry didn't mind. The skittish Widows never bit him, though he suspected they had reason to. Absently, he stroked the deadly spider's back in gratitude. The Widow didn't move, though the front legs did rise a hair to quiver in what Harry though was happiness as the other hung from his fingers by silken thread.

He couldn't be sure, though, since it was a spider.

Leaning with his back against the wall, eyeing the thin rafters several feet above him, he sighed. Dropping the nonvenomous spider into his palm, he set it up on the beam with a lopsided grin. It wouldn't be good for his auntie to get him up, and see him covered in the small crawlies. Shooing the small, venomous Black Widow off his lap a moment later, herding it to a corner it could hide under, he wondered the time. Eyeing the door, knowing it was locked on the other side, Harry wished he was strong enough to force it open. If he was old enough, then he would be to big to keep in the small space under the stairs.

Stomach churning, growling, Harry Potter closed his eyes. Head pressed against the wall behind him, matted hair falling around his facelike a black veil, the raven-haired boy knew _today _was the day his cousin would be starting kindergarten. Pulling his legs to his chest, resting his cheek against thin knees, he wondered if the house would be quieter. _Will auntie will tell me I do good today?_

He had no way to track the time as it passed, but the inky darkness soon faded and dusty light peeked under the door of his room. The spiders had vanished, as if knowing light meant the big people woke up, and Harry envied their abilities to hide from them. Pulling away from the door, shuffling though the tattered blankets to open a board next to his bed, he pulled out a pair of pants and shirt. Slipping them on, both hanging off of him and easily the size of a child three times his age, the small boy waited. It was only a bit later when he heard the stairs over his creak, and then the soft press of light feet against the floor in the hall outside his door.

"You up, boy?" The door swung open, and the harsh, thin features of his aunt greeted him. She blinked for a moment, her gaze moving from his forehead to his bare feet. He kept silent, head tilted to the side, and his bangs brushed across his face. He saw her swallow, her eyes glued to his face, and he blinked. She stepped backwards, voice tight as she snapped, "Well, up at it! You most certainly cannot stay in there all day, heaven forbid."

He crawled out of the crawlspace, and rose to his feet. He shut the door himself, and latched it tight. He knew it made his aunt happy when he did that, and he followed after her once she deemed him quick enough. She pushed a footstool before the counter, and Harry climbed on while she pulled a multitude of items out of the refrigerator. Eggs, bread, oils, raw bacon, and several items sat before him. Petunia Dursley, his aunt and one of his two guardians, gave him a pointed look as she said, "Cook this, and don't mess up. I'm going to get the milk from the porch."

He set to work, silent and brow furrowed, and listened to the sounds of the house. He eyed the clock, at the position of the hands, and deemed he had two rounds on it before his uncle was awake. He only got up after the next notch past the middle on the bottom, though he didn't know the time the numbers told. His aunt appeared a moment later, a carton filled with glass milk bottles in hand, and went about putting them in the kitchen while she got the coffee started.

_I'm not old enough to handle coffee. _He mused, and then frowned. _But how old is old enough?_

He was halfway through breakfast when the next mark on the clock passed, and the heavy steps of his uncle began their slow trek down the stairs. Harry froze, eyes wide, and cast a look at his aunt. She had stalled in her own work, a frown on her face, and snapped, "Keep working, boy. Vernon, is all well?"

He heard his aunt leave the kitchen, could hear her talking to his uncle as he upped the heat on the stove, and put more effort into finishing the food as quickly as he possibly could. Whispered conversation between his aunt and uncle reached his ears as they came into the conversation, "...wanted to be awake for the little tyke, Pet. Today's a big day, and I won't have _anything _ruining it. Hear that, brat?"

Shoulders stiff, Harry nodded. He could feel his uncle staring at him, feel his gaze digging into him, but did his best to ignore it as he finished breakfast. As he separated them out on the three plates on the table, he could hear his cousin coming downstairs. Placing the drinks on the table, the dark coffee warm in the mugs, he was quick to vanish to begin his list of chores for the morning. Stomach grumbling, limbs weak, he slipped into the front of the house just as someone knocked on the door.

Blinking, eyeing the door, he turned on his heel and swept into the kitchen to grab onto the hem of his aunt's blouse. She turned her gaze upon him, and he pointed at the door just as the knock resounded, louder than the last. Petunia's gaze shifted to her husband, and their eyes held as she asked, "Are you expecting company, dear?"

A negative grunt was answer, and she stood. Setting her fork and spoon next to her plate, she swept into the hallway. Harry followed on her heel, stopping next to the couch with small hands grasping the furniture, as she opened the door. From where he stood, he could see her stiffen, and then her voice drifted to his ears, "Yes, sir, this is the Dursley household. What can I do for you?"

Vernon was at his side in a moment's notice, though his gaze was directed at his wife and not the boy next to him. Dudley stood slightly in front of him, and Harry had to shift to see around his round cousin. His aunt was coming towards them, and, behind her, was the strangest big person he had ever seen. He was wearing a _dress. _Eyes wide, he could only stare with disbelief before shifting from foot-to-foot. _What sort of big person wears a dress when they're not a girl?__  
_

The old person following his aunt dipped his head in greeting, a pointed hat in hand and pressed against his chest. "Do pardon my visit, Mr. Dursley. I am here only to cheek up on young Hadrian there."

_He knows my name? _Harry's gaze narrowed slightly, and he shifted to stand behind his uncle. Strange, odd big people weren't allowed in the house. And this man was big, strange, odd, and dressed wrong. As if sensing his thoughts, his uncle snapped, "Well, you can see he's fine. Now, if you do not mind, please excuse yourself from my home."

"I'm afraid I cannot just yet, Mr. Dursley. Why not have the boys go play upstairs, and the three of us can have a quick chat?" Harry cast a quick look at his aunt, and she nodded. He grasped Dudley's hand, far larger than his own, and dragged him past the strange man and up the stairs even as the round boy protested. Harry tightened his grip, and stopped just as the wall covered their bodies. Kneeling, his cousin right behind him, he listened as Vernon snapped, "Well, what do you want to know?"

"Hadrian and your son get along well, don't they? How much older is young Harry? I can call him that, yes?"

"Younger." Petunia cut in, and Harry could envision a red-faced uncle as she continued, "By a year. They get along as well as boys there age can be expected to get along, you understand. They go through phases."

"My apologies. I was not aware of the age different." There was a long pause before the strange man said, "I had thought they were roughly the same age."

"It's alright." His aunt's voice was strained, and Harry knew that meant it was _not _alright. "How is Hadrian adjusting to life here? He seemed rather..."

"Shy?" Petunia was in full control of the conversation, Harry knew, due to his uncle's temper. Dudley, right behind him, was still and silent as their aunt and mother continued, "He's painfully shy. Doesn't talk, either, though he hasn't since he came into our care. He's well-mannered, if that's what you're about to ask."

"Pet," Vernon finally managed to cut in, voice loud, as he added, "I do not want this _man _in my house! We don't even know his name!"

"Ah, how rude of me." Harry heard what he thought was the movement of the old person standing, followed by a name, "I am Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and the magical guardian of young Mr. Hadrian James Potter. I do hope it would not be to much to ask for some tea?"

Harry squatted there, dumbfounded, at the title. Behind him, his cousin whispered, "What a stupid name."

Inwardly, Harry agreed. On the outside, he made a motion for his cousin to stay quiet as the old man continued, "However, I am surprised to hear that young Hadrian is mute."

Harry was surprised. _He talks as if he knows me._

"He isn't." Petunia countered, and then she said, "He just doesn't talk. He understands what we say, but he prefers his silence."

"What about his hobbies?" The old person questioned, and Harry frowned. His aunt was quiet for a moment before she said, "Harry has a few hobbies. He likes to work in the garden, in the evenings, and he reads a bit. He's shy, so he doesn't interact much with others."

"What _else_ could you possibly want to know?" Vernon cut in a second time, voice near a growl as he snapped, "We have fed him, put a roof over his head, made sure he has clothes. We take _care _of him. Isn't _that _the deal?!"

Beside him, Dudley stiffened. Harry could feel his cousin's hand brush against his before fat fingers curled around his hand, and then he was tugged away from the hallway into his cousin's second bedroom. Dudley sat on the floor, a stack of blocks in front of him, and began building with them. He paused halfway through, and Harry met his bleary blue eyes with mossy green as his cousin said, "Take care of you, pa said."

Confusion danced in his cousin's eyes, and Harry crouched on the other side of the blocks and wrapped his arms around his knees. Propping his chin on his folded arms, he watched his cousin stack blocks for a few minutes before handing the last block to Harry. "Put it on the top."

Harry did as told, and leaned back to eye the tower with a frown. The few times he touched the blocks was not to stack them. He had picked them up in the front room a year ago when his cousin left them scattered on the ground, one item on his list of chores to complete each day. Dudley was looking at the tower, the green block on the top, with a light frown on his face as if seeing it for the first time. Harry didn't know what was going on in the older boy's mind, though he did keep an eye on his cousin.

"Hadrian." Dudley suddenly said, though Harry knew he wasn't speaking to him. It was as if he was tasting the name, getting a feeling for it before he said, almost to himself, "Mum says Harry, though. Two names? Strange."

Harry heard movement downstairs, followed by the sound of the front-door opening, and then someone was walking up the stairs. The door opened, and Petunia stood in the doorway as Harry took another block from his cousin's hand. He turned it over, and placed it in the spot he was told to put it: the blocks colored the same color. Harry thought _that _block was red, like the color of his blood when he accidentally cuts himself or when he skins his knees. He took another block, a soft hue like the sky without the fluffy things in it, and placed it in its group. He heard the door shut as his cousin said each block's color as he handed it to him. They were left up there for the rest of the day.

* * *

Two weeks had passed since the strange fellow had visited her home, and Petunia Dursley was more than happy to chalk it up as a dream. Yet, no matter how hard she tried, the subtle change which occurred would not leave her mind as she recalled her son, her lovely Duddikins, playing with his younger cousin in his second bedroom. While he had been handing him blocks, telling Harry the color, it was the first time the two had interacted on a level other children played on.

The raven-haired child had crouched there, wordlessly taking the blocks and putting them wherever Dudley told him to, and waited for an order. Her sweet little Dudley had the strangest look on his face, not one of anger but he _hadn't _been happy either. She knew that look. When Dudley was picking up on something, if it was something good or bad, he always had that look. Sometimes it would take a few days for him to work it out, or a few months. She was hoping whatever questions the Man-Whose-Name-Was-To-Be-Forgotten visit sparked, about the man himself and his cousin, would settle and leave. She had a feeling that the two of them had overheard a part of the conversation she and her husband had with the headmaster, though she could not be certain.

Dudley could be quiet if the situation suited him, and Harry was, by nature, a very silent child. Eyeing the list in her hand, several gifts for her son added, she paused. Perhaps she _could _get Harry something, not a toy exactly, but something which would keep him out of the way when others came by. Dudley had his toys, and they kept him quiet when they had visitors she _didn't_ want in the house. Yet, the small raven-haired, green-eyed child inspired a mental image of a laughing, redheaded girl on a swing-set holding a younger version of herself's hand. Fiddling with the pendant she wore around her neck, she wondered how she managed to come into possession of her younger sister's son after all these years.

And why, for the love of God, did the boy make her chest clinch every time she looked him in the eye.

Pushing that thought from her mind, she continued her route. She had five stores left to stop in, nine more gifts to by - _ten, _she reminded herself. Harry's birthday came shortly after Dudley's, and she would need to get him something to settle down whatever instincts may cut in. She remembered Lily was roughly five when her first accident happened. Harry was turning five, Dudley six, and she knew things in her household were about to change. She could feel it, a subtle shift in the air she couldn't explain, something which scared her, and stopped in a secondhand gift-shop when she collected everything on her list. Clutching her bag to her side, hair penned upon her head in a severe bun, she eyed the books and small knickknacks in the room before sweeping down one aisle. It was towards the end, at the very back, she spied a small, black sketchbook resting on the table, innocent and completely blank, that she made her choice. Harry was a growing boy, and nothing could go wrong with some innocent drawings in a book.

She took it to the front after gathering some pencils, a sharpener, and colored pencils. She set them on the counter, and the man at the desk paused as he picked up the book. He looked at her, a dark red eyebrow arching into his hairline, as he said, "Sure you want this book, ma'am? I've had it here for some time now."

She gave the man a dark look, and said, "If I didn't want it, I wouldn't have brought it up here to buy."

"Suit yourself, lady." He checked out the items, told her the price, and Petunia handed over the money. Five pounds less than what she said she would need would go unnoticed. Vernon would simply assume she got something to eat, or a drink for herself as she shopped.

Eyeing the small bundle, the drawing book nestled within in a soft cloth, she smiled. It was just what she needed, and, in the end, everyone would be thankful for her mindfulness. It was for the greater good of the family, and even Harry could be happy with something like this.

Yes, the greater good indeed.


	2. Start of Art

**Author's Note**: This is the second installment of _'When Darkness Sings._'

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**Rating**: **T**

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Dudley's sixth birthday came quickly, and Harry, who turned five a month later, was surprised to be pulled aside by his aunt the morning after Vernon and Dudley left the house. She shooed him into the front-room, and directed him to the couch. Perched on the edge, he eyed his aunt with wide, emerald orbs as she sat in front of him, a small box on her lap.

It was a plain box, from what he could see, and he slowly brought his gaze up to hers. They met and held for several minutes before she cleared her throat and handed the box to him. Harry took it, but wasn't entirely sure what she wanted him to do with it. Seeing his confusion, she said, "It's for you."

Eyeing the box, he slowly pulled the tape off the sides before lifting off the top. Inside were two boxes of pencils, one colored and the other black lead, and a thick bundle wrapped in a silken cloth. He ran his fingers over it, the emerald green silk a startling match to his eyes, and eyed the silver thread weaving along the edges in a pattern similar to a snake. Unfolding it, he eyed the black cover of a book with a furrowed brow.

"It's a sketchpad." Looking up at his aunt, Harry cocked his to the side as she elaborated, "It's something you draw in. I thought you would like something to do when we have quests over, or when you finish your chores early."

Nodding slowly, he lifted it out of the box. Opening it, flipping through the blank pages, he smiled. "The cover is made of leather, if you're wondering. The cloth came with it, so you can keep that as well."

Nodding, showing he understood, he gestured to his cupboard. Petunia was quiet for a moment, thoughts passing beneath the surface of her eyes, and she finally responded to his silent question, "Put them away for now. Once you get your chores done, and as long as Vernon isn't home, you can draw in it."

Harry paused halfway across the room, and turned on his heel. His aunt was watching him, and then he gestured to the box it had come in. Petunia nodded, and he gave an awkward smile in thanks before slipping his first gift into the cupboard. For extra measure, he slipped it under his pillow and a few spiders in the room paused what they were doing to look at him. He petted one of them, and closed the door to begin his day's work.

Breakfast was already done and out of the way, and yet there remained a hoard of chores to do around the house. He went from room-to-room, aware of his aunt's gaze on his back, as he made a mental list of what needed to be done. The kitchen needed cleaned, the front room needed to be vacuumed, the stairs need to meet the Dustbuster, the hallway needed to be picked up, the bathroom needed a great deal of attention, the beds needed to be made, and small things around the house needed to be placed in their proper place. In a way, the small child was glad he cleaned on a daily basis. If he did not, his chores would be far more difficult, and he knew if he worked harder today, he could get a bit of downtime to play with his drawing pad.

_Sketchpad, auntie called it. Sketchpad. Sketchpad. Sketchpad._

He tossed the word around, tasted it in his thoughts, and wondered what it would feel like on his tongue. Cleaning the counters in the kitchen, the rag warm in his hand, he wondered what he could possibly draw. He hadn't done it before, so he was not sure. The journal and pencils were objects belonging solely to him, and he liked the green and silver cloth that came with it. The snake on it was enough to keep his aunt away from it, though he wondered who made it.

He thought it was made of a material unlike anything else in the house, silk he believed the word to be. It was a word he had heard the few times he watched the television, and those days he kept an eye on the Animal Planet. Such days, it was the house and him alone. The summer break was close to ending, and a new year was about to start in school.

He did not think it was normal to be taking kindergarten during the summer. Preschool, he mused to himself, is what a few people would call it. Though he highly doubted _anyone _would say that to his uncle's face. Preschool was for three and four-year-old children, not one who was six. A refresher class, then? Harry had heard his aunt use the word, and wondered if it was the correct one.

Eyeing the floor, he decided he would mop it last before moving into the front-room. Parts of it were already picked up, and a small smile stretched across his face at the sight. Auntie was cleaning, then, though she didn't do it often. He could hear her moving around upstairs, in her and Vernon's room, and figured she was making the bed. Eyeing the widow, seeing a sleek black car pass the house, he wondered when his uncle would get home. _Hopefully not till tonight._

In the months that passed, Harry drew in his little drawing pad whenever he had a moment to spare. The pages drank the colors in like blood being soaked up in a dry sponge, and they seldom came back but at times they would with odd letters next to them when they did. Harry did not know what they meant, so he paid little attention to them though he did spend a large sum of his time tracing the three letters embroidered on the inside of the cover in silver and green. It was one comfort he had, and his skills grew as the air chilled and his chores dwindled.

A year passed uneventfully, and his sixth birthday passed in silence. There was no gifts.

* * *

Spring was Harry's favorite season, though he did adore winter. He had a hard time deciding which he preferred.

The comfortable cold, or the spring when snow turned into flowing water. He liked the rain, and it was often one of the most common pictures that found its way into his picture book. The one picture that took forever to soak up was a large man flying over the moon on a motorcycle, though when it did it would not soak up any more pictures for the rest of the day. It was like the book had a mind of its own, and a personality which Harry found amusing.

As he curled up at the foot of the sofa, Dudley playing a video game and Vernon at work, Harry sat with his drawing pad in his lap. When he was around others, the pictures did not sink into nothingness. It was something he was thankful for due to the fact he did not have the words to explain it. As it was, the front of the book was filled with page after page of drawings: some in color with others in black-and-white. For things he had trouble drawing, the book provided an outline for him to learn off of. It was a magic book, he like to think to himself with high amusement, and he spent a good deal of time picturing his relatives reactions if they had known what his auntie had bought him.

Petunia, knitting a blanket of some sort, sat directly next to him, her legs brushing his arm as he glanced up at his cousin and then down to the page he was drawing upon. He was etching his cousin's face into the page, the furrowed brow and jutted lip, when a knock on the front-door stalled his pencil. The pages warmed under his hand, a steady heat he had grown accustomed to, and eyed the door. His aunt frowned, set aside her needlework, and rose to her feet. He heard the front door open, and Dudley, who had paused his game, was staring at the hall.

Petunia came back into the front-room, and, behind her, was old Mrs. Arabella Figg. The quiet groan which escaped Dudley was a sentient Harry felt himself, and he closed his sketching pad with a light frown. Mrs. Figg met his eye, and smile as she said, "Hello, Harry dear. How are you?"

"Mrs. Figg, you know he doesn't talk." Petunia sat down in the same spot, and gestured for the elderly woman to sit across from her as she said, "Anyway, you said there is something you wanted to talk to me about."

Harry looked between the two adults before turning his attention to his cousin. The large boy was watching, just as quiet, and he knew they were both awaiting their dismissal. Yet Petunia did not issue it, and leaned into the couch with the half-made blanket across her lap. Mrs. Figg, however, had a little frown to her features that did not bode well with him. She set her cane against the arm of the couch, folded her arms in her lap, and said, "Harry, dear, you should sit up here next to your aunt. Dudley, if you would be a dear?"

Harry slowly sat himself on the edge of his seat, journal held in his lap and his grip tight around it, as Dudley sat next to him. Mrs. Figg was smiling as she said, "Six is a great age to turn, Harry. Very great indeed. Excited to start first grade, Dudley?"

"Yes, ma'am." There was a sense of confusion around the three of them as the elderly woman said, "Petunia, dear, I was wondering when you planned on enrolling Harry into kindergarten. My nephew mentions he has not seen his enrollment form as of yet."

"Nephew?" Petunia squeaked, eyes wide as she plowed on, "I was getting ready to home-school him. Harry doesn't like crowds, and he's painfully shy. I just don't think he would do well in a public school at his age."

"Yes, my nephew. He teaches one of the rooms in kindergarten, though I was sad to hear Dudley wasn't in it." Mrs. Figg fiddled around in the bag she had set next to her, a light humming coming from her as she pulled out a photo. She passed it to Petunia as she added, "That is Mr. Figg, my nephew. He just started working last year, and he was very excited to teach one of your kids since he's heard so much about you.

"Homeschooling is all and well, I know, but we cannot expect young Harry to get out of his shell without some help."

Harry was looking between the adults, a sense of confusion dancing across his senses, before it clicked. He eyed his aunt, and fought his body's natural instincts as she wrapped an arm around his shoulders. He managed to keep himself relaxed, though his grip tightened even more around the book on his lap. He didn't _want _to go to school._  
_

Even as the thought crossed his mind, Petunia said, "Perhaps getting him set up in school would be helpful. I'll talk to Vernon about it."

"See that you do." Mrs. Figg stood up, cane grasped in her hand as she added, "A bright boy like him should get every opportunity to grow. He's such a helpful child, isn't he? And a gifted one at that."

Harry wasn't sure he liked the idea of being called _gifted _by Mrs. Figg, though he mutely nodded. Hopefully she would leave, and, after a few more minutes of pointless conversation, Petunia swept her out of the house. She was at the front-door as she said, "Yes, Mrs. Figg, if we are in need of any additional help with his schooling, we will be sure to contact you. Yes, of course, I'll see that Vernon signs the papers. Of course, Mrs. Figg. Do have a nice night."

The moment the door closed, Harry shot a quick look at his cousin. Dudley shrugged, restarted his game, and picked up where he left off. Harry, oddly enough, found the picture he started gone and smiled. At least he never ran out of paper, and he was content to pick out something else and draw it despite the lack of the picture he had started on. Knowing the book, it was tired of drawings of Dudley. It was only one mystery the book held, one of many, and Harry was happy to kept _that _secret to himself.

The evening passed uneventfully, the house clean and spotless, and it was the one time during the day in which Harry was allowed to sit with his aunt and cousin in quiet contentment with his drawing pad. The three had a mutual understanding that Vernon was not to known. A great many things in the house went unsaid: the vanishing dishes, the way a room would be dirty one moment and spotless the next, the way the plates would be set on the table in the morning before Harry was up. Small things.

Harry's drawing pad, at this moment, was hidden in his cupboard and Harry, once again, found himself sitting with the family for dinner. He ate slowly, with care, and he made sure to keep his utensils quiet. Petunia folded her napkin on her lap, set her glass of juice down, and said, lightly, "Vernon, dear, I've been thinking..."

Vernon looked up from the paper he was reading, eyes narrowed, as he said, "What's on your mind, Pet."

"Well, Mrs. Figg stopped by this morning." She traced the rim of her cup, and Dudley took a deep drink of his soda. Harry sipped at his water as she continued on with whatever thought she was speaking, "And, well, she pointed out something. The neighbors noticed Harry doesn't leave the house. A few of the others have also brought it up, in fact, and I thought it would be best to enroll him into classes as not to draw any unwanted suspicion."

Harry bit into a slice of apple, eyeing his uncle's expression from under his bangs, and brushed his hair back as he reached for his drink as his uncle mulled the information over. Slight pains danced along his sides, impressions left by anger, and Harry gingerly sipped his water as his uncle said, "We'll have to get papers for it, as well as his identification."

"Mrs. Figg brought the papers over, and, well, his _other _papers supplied any ID we would need to put him in school." Harry watched his aunt, questions he could not ask dancing across the surface of his thoughts, as she picked up her glass, her voice light as she said, "I have them upstairs. We can fill them out in the morning, and I'll take him to the school in the morning on Monday to get him enrolled when I take Dudley to class."

"Oh, you have the papers?" Vernon leaned back, downing his drink as he spat, "The brat might as well not exist concerning the state of his bloody parents!"

Harry shrank in his seat, a sliver of unease settling over him, and eyed the drink in his uncle's hand. Petunia smoothed her hands on the napkin in her lap, though he did note how her nails bit into it as she said, "Yes, I have the papers. I kept them in case something like this came up."

Harry slipped from his seat, plate in hand, and took Dudley's when the boy handed it to him. He stepped up onto the stool, washing the dishes as Vernon spat, "We might as well tell them he's daft. God, everyone knows its true. Boy, do we have to do everything!"

Harry jumped, and turned on his heel to look at his uncle. The man was lumbering towards him, and he grasped his chin in tight fingers as he asked, "Think you are to good for school?"

Harry had no way to answer, and his uncle's eyes narrowed as he growled, "Little cretin. We've taken you in, and you don't even have the manners to speak when we talk to you!"

Sweat beaded on his forehead, and not a sound escaped as he was pushed out of the way. "Get the dishes done, and get in your room!"

Harry took the plate with eager hands. It was not long before he found himself in his cupboard, the door latched shut behind him, and he leaned against the wall as a few black-widows climbed onto his hand. He pulled his book out from under his pillow, the silk covering with it, and brought it to his chest. It was warm, the heat seeping through his thin shirt to caress his chest, and he sighed in relief as the bruises on his shoulder lessened. As he settled in for the night, a small candle burning next to him, he opened the book and began to draw a sketch of the spider on his hand with minute detail. To his relief, the spider did not move until he was done.

* * *

Kindergarten was, perhaps, more terrifying than his uncle's wrath. Harry was quick to tug his sleeve over his wrist, and it hung slightly off one shoulder. The impression left on his skin went unnoticed, the bruise almost blending into the shadows of his clothing. Petunia stood next to him, one hand on his shoulder, and the tall women sitting at the desk in the office was eyeing him with a light frown. A light pressure on his shoulder had him moving to hide himself partly behind his aunt's legs, and Petunia said, "I'm afraid he is a bit shy, but this is my nephew Hadrian."

"Hadrian Potter?" The women asked as she read the file on her desk. "He's rather small for a six-year-old boy."

"He turns seven next summer." It was spring, he knew, but the women didn't look convinced as she said, "And his clothing?"

"He draws, you see." Harry tightened his grip on his journal, feeling it heat up as it added countless pictures back into the white pages. "He often plays in the yard as well, so keeping him clean is rather impossible. As is, he has a certain fondness for his clothing."

"Does he?" There was a light narrowing of the woman's gaze, her voice light as she said, "I do hope you have him properly dressed for class tomorrow. We will have to do an assessment on his skills before we put him with Mr. Figg, just to see if he will settle alright after being home-schooled."

The woman lead him to a different room, away from his aunt, and he sat in the seat she pointed at. She sat across from him, a chart in her hands, as she said, "Can you tell me your name?"

Harry pointed at his throat in response, a light smile pulling at his lips as her eyes widened. "You're mute?"

Harry nodded, knowing it was the answer his guardians would want him to give. Either way, despite how he answered, he couldn't remember the last time he had spoken. Not since he was little, he suspected, when the darkness of a cupboard scared him. The scratching of a pen on paper drew him from his thoughts as she asked, "Can you spell your name?"

Harry shook his head, but he held up six fingers as an offering. She smiled, voice light as she asked, "Six years old, eh? A good age, isn't it?"

He nodded, and waited for the next question. She questioned him on colors in the room, the numbers on the clock, different objects. Swinging his legs, his feet unable to meet the floor, he pointed out what he could in response and nodded, or shook, his head in response to yes-and-no questions. As she questioned him about various things, he observed her in kind. A young, blond women she was. As he brushed his hair out of his face, he saw her still and her eyes widen in something akin to horror.

"Sweetie, what happened to your face?" Harry blinked, and reached up in confusion. Did he leave some breakfast on it. She reached to him, and he stilled to let her take off whatever he had missed only to feel her fingers follow the long, jagged line marring his features. His scar. He swallowed, and watched her as she traced it just below his right ear. "Where did you get this?"

He gave her a pointed look, and then she said, "Did you get it at home?"

Harry shook his head, and she shot to the next question, "Away from home?"

He raised a brow, but nodded nonetheless. He gestured out the window, towards the car parked outside, and she followed his movements before asking, "In a car accident?"

He nodded, and then frowned as he reached up to touch the start of the scar above his left eye. He motioned at the door, and the women swept past him to the door to call his aunt in. He heard her speaking to his auntie as she returned to her seat, "I just noticed the scar your nephew has. He indicated he got it in a car accident."

"He did." Petunia said, voice light, and she continued, "When he was one, my sister died in a car crash alongside her husband. Harry, here, was the only one to survive. The doctors had said he would be badly scarred afterwards, but it hasn't appeared to bother him any in the past five years I've had him in my care."

"I'm sorry for your loss, Mrs. Dursley." The woman murmured, and then she squared her shoulders as she said, "However, I do think he's ready for school. He knows his numbers rather well, and his colors, and some of the more obvious items in the room. We'll watch him over the next few weeks to see if he'll need tutoring after hours."

"Of course." Petunia stood, shook hands with the women, and turned to him as she said, "She's going to take you to class now. I want you to behave, Harry, and I'll see you this afternoon."

Harry nodded, and watched his aunt leave. He held his backpack in front of him, and silently followed the women out of the office to the lower floor of the school to a classroom at the back of the hall. She knocked once, and then slipped inside with a gentle, "Mr. Figg, I have Hadrian Potter with me."

He slipped into the bright, cheerful room behind the teacher to see a classroom full of children his age. They were all eyeing him with curiosity, and he shifted uneasily before turning his gaze to Mr. Figg. The teacher swept across the room to him, a bright smile on his face, and knelt in front of him. He offered a hand as he said, "I'm Mr. Figg, Mr. Potter. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Harry eyed the hand, and then the man. He didn't see any spot of Mrs. Figg in the man. Slowly, he reached out and grasped the hand. They shook once, and then he was shown where to put his shoes and backpack. He emptied his bag, took out his sketchpad, a few notebooks, and his supplies before finding a desk at the back of the room. Odd mats covered the floor, bright and colorful, and he was allowed to draw on giant pieces of paper with something the other kids called markers and crayons. Mr. Figg put one of his pictures on the wall with a smile, and asked if he drawled often. Harry nodded, and offered a light smile.

The days passed slowly in this manner, the teacher keeping a steady eye on him and the students slowly pulling away once they realized he wasn't going to respond to any questions they asked. Mr. Figg made up for the lack of contact, though a few of students would help him with his letters. At recess, he would see his cousin and his friends and it was _there _that any solitude he found in class was fully grasped in eager hands. It was during this time, the time in which the children ran around the playground, that he would rather be at 4 Privet Drive cleaning than face the joys of his cousin's new hobby.

Kindergarten was where Dudley came up with a new game he called Harry Hunting, and Dudley, alongside his friends, took to it joyfully.


	3. The Pains of Childhood

**Author's Note**: This is the third installment of _'When Darkness Sings._'

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Harry had always been quick for his age.

Dudley spent their entire recess chasing him, dunking into tight spaces Harry thought he could use to get his cousin off his tail but still managed to follow him, and the elder would laugh when the younger escaped every time. Harry often overhead his cousin telling his friends that, if they somehow manged to catch the small raven-haired boy that was his cousin, he would give them a reward. If they didn't, their lunch was forfeit. Harry had yet to be caught, and during each lunch, he had something filling to eat. The other boys haven't figured out where their lost lunches went to.

The days he did not go out to the playground, his cousin would hunt him down in the library where the gentle librarian sat with him, both immersed in the slow learning of letters and their sounds, and give him part of his lunch. He glared the entire time, but Harry would smile at his cousin in thanks. The portly boy would flush each time before leaving, grumbling under his breath about stupid cousins who could not feed themselves properly.

The progress he made in his alphabet was astonishing, and his teachers often praised him. The attention did not deter him. If he could learn enough words, perhaps he could start writing in his journal. The thought made him bubbly with excitement. If it _was _a magic journal, then maybe it could talk back to him. They could become friends, Harry often would entertain himself with the thought, and then he would have someone to talk to. Someone who _wouldn't _judge him.

He had spent many months learning the rules, and he felt he had a large enough grasp on the written word to start with something small. When he returned to the Dursleys after school, he was quick to finish his chores. They were going out for dinner, and Mrs. Figg wasn't home so they decided he would be left at the house. They locked the cupboard after he crawled in, as an extra precaution, but Harry was fine with that. He had no intention of leaving.

He had a few of his notebooks, each filled with the alphabet, little charts with pictures and their word next to them. He even put a line of each color he had in it with the color's spelling so he would know the word when he saw it and how to spell them. Sitting in his cupboard, one little spider resting on his shoulder, he eyed the journal at his feet before taking it in hand. _Finally_, he breathed to himself, _it was time._

It heated up instantly, as it always did, and Harry swallowed. The journal quivered in his grasp, as if recognizing him, and the spider skittered down his arm, resting on the back of his hand as if encouraging him, and he slowly opened the book. Taking a steadying breath, he picked up a pencil, freshly sharpened, and tapped it against the page. What did one write in a journal? Staring at the blank, white, line-less space, thinking of all the pictures he drew, and the three letters on the inside of the cover, Harry nodded to himself. He had already filled pages with his art, so what would it matter if he placed words inside instead of pictures? It would eat his words when he was finished.

Setting the pencil to the page, he wrote: _I not no how paper eats art, but I told books like this are right in._

For a long moment, his words sat there before sinking. It was like the first time, and Harry had a distinct feeling it was looking over the words he scribbled. Cocking his head to the side, he watched the words vanish into the paper like his pictures had before them. He wondered if the journal was use to such things, these kind of words, but Mr. Figg said it was a book people used to write their thoughts in. He hoped it might return his sentiment, like it did when it provided him charts on his pictures, but his hope was dimming the longer the page stayed blank. He was about to close it when the writing started to reappear on the page in a script far cleaner than his own.

The words were slow to form, and Harry leaned in close to see them clearly: _Hello, child. My name is Tom Riddle._

Harry stared. Tom Riddle, like the letters on the back of the cover. Swallowing, he set his pencil directly beneath the line, a line that wasn't vanishing, as he asked: _Tom Riddle? TMR on inside paper._

_It stands for Tom Marvolo Riddle. The 'inside paper' is the inside cover of the book, and they are my initials. What name do you go by, child?_

The writing was elegant. He traced the letters with awe, and a smile pulled at his lips as he looked at the spider setting on his knee. he pulled the book closer to his face, squinting as he slowly read the words aloud. He kept one hand under the word, frustrated when some did not comes as quickly as others, but soon the words pulled together into the question at the end. Smiling, feeling as if he won an award, he petted the spider sitting with him. He turned to the book as he answered: _My name is Harry. Mr. Figg give last name when righting to a new prson, but I cant right mine._

The book was taking as long to respond to his message as it took him to read its response. Finally, after several minutes, an answer appeared: _Giving a last name is proper when meeting someone new. The word, however, is **writing,**_ _young Harry. Write and writing are the names of the actions we are doing. Right is a way of saying 'to the right is your pencil.'_

Harry recorded the information in one of his notebooks after working out the sentence, a smile on his face as he turned back to the book as another question swept across the page: _How old are you, Harry?_

He paused, eyeing the question as he tried to recall how Mr. Figg told him to word this. Swallowing, he wrote with care: _Six? I is six?_

_I **am **__six. _Harry nodded, and recited the line to himself in his head as the words kept going: _For someone so young, you are doing well. Are you the one who drawls in the pages of my home?_

_I am. _Harry watched the words sink into the paper, a pleased smile on his face as it responded: _For a six-year-old, you draw rather well. Is the fat one your brother?_

Harry blinked, and a sensation of a giggle welled up but did not slip past his throat. _No. That Dudley. Aunt son._

_Your cousin, then. How old is that one? _Harry mused the question in his head, before answering honestly: _He am seven?_

_He **is **__seven. A year older than you. _Harry nodded to himself, the firelight of the candle dancing across the pages as he caressed the lines. They stayed where they were, the pages warmed under his fingers. He was talking to his book. Or was it Tom's book? Harry wasn't sure, but he was happy to have it with him. Then, after some time, the journal said: _I do wonder where you got me._

_Aunt got for me. Things to write with she got me. _The book ate the words, processed them, and then asked: _Was I a present?_

_Yes? _Harry wasn't sure what 'present' was, the words coming out odd as he tried to sound them out. The journal responded, as if sensing his thoughts: _Was I a gift?_

_Yes. My brthday. _Harry smiled as the book corrected his spelling, and then, rather promptly, said: _It's getting late, Harry. Go to bed._

Harry stared at the journal for a long time, watching as the words were taken into white pages, and wondered if the clock he drew functioned like an actual clock on the inside of the pages. The thought of a drawn Dudley wrecking havoc had silent laughs coming from him, and watery eyes blurred his already hazy vision. Closing the journal, keeping it close to his chest, he blew out the candle and set his head upon his pillow. As the smoke wafted through the room, a spider watched him from the rafter above. Sleep claimed him, and gave way to dreams of green lights and a shrill screams.

* * *

Harry decided after the first month of kindergarten that he liked Mr. Figg.

The gentle teacher didn't smell like cats, cabbage, or an old person's home. He was patient, understanding, and the gentle man made the appointments for tutoring after school himself. Mr. Figg _drove him home _so that his aunt or uncle didn't have to get out a second time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday after each session was done, and everyone was happier for it. Harry suspected _that _was the reason his aunt and uncle did not mind him staying at the school past three in the evening, nor the fact he got home at five. While he had to stay up late to get both his chores and homework done, and even longer to talk to Tom, Harry felt it was time well spent.

In the month that passed, his writing flourished under the care of his tutors. Mr. Figg didn't mind that he couldn't speak, but offered to teach him sign-language as a means of communicating outside of paper. If they finished his letters and numbers early, he would guide him through the letters and how to shape them with his hand. It was slow going, and Harry had asked for a chart to practice at home, and Mr. Figg had supplied one readily. Whatever bruises Harry had, they never came to light, and Harry made sure to keep his journal on his being at any given moment of the day.

"Words are a means of expressing what we feel," Mr. Figg stated as he stood at the front of the class, a warm smile on his face as he said, "and, because of this, they are a gift we must grasp with eager hands."

Harry continued to sit in the back, and, despite the fact the board was a blurry jumble of lines, he pushed onward. He was halfway through class when Mr. Figg pulled him aside with a gentle hand and gestured him to sit a seat away from prying ears and eyes to ask, "Harry, have you had your vision tested?"

The small, raven-haired youth furrowed his brow, questions dancing in his eyes. Mr. Figg took his glasses off, and handed them to Harry. Taking the glasses from his teacher, looking them over with wonder, Mr. Figg explained, "Those help me see better. If someone has trouble seeing, glasses help fix that. I noticed you squint in class, and I wanted to know if your aunt has taken you to get your sight tested."

Harry frowned, but slowly shook his head as his answer before signing, slowly, _'No, sir.'_

Mr. Figg nodded, expression gentle as he said, "When recess starts, I'll take you to the nurse so we can get a general idea on where your vision stands. It won't hurt, so you have nothing to worry about."

Harry dutifully continued on as he had afterwards, and Mr. Figg dropped a paper on his desk. Looking at it, the teacher explained, "It's a copy of what I put on the board. Despite having troubles seeing, I'm glad to know you take good notes while I talk. Listening is one part of understanding."

Harry mentally filed that away, knowing it was important.

* * *

_Harry Potter. Potter is my last name. _Harry wrote as he waited for the nurse to get her stuff together. Both teacher and nurse had their attention elsewhere, their voices light as they spoke, and he really wanted Tom to know his last name. A second passed before the journal replied: _Harry Potter. A pleasant name, though I suggest we save our conversation, or time of talking, until you get home or when you are not in the nurse's office about to get your eyes checked._

Harry stared in shock before closing the book, the leather warm under his fingers. He just got scolded. By a book.

"Here, Harry, look through this. I want you to read off the letters on the top row." Harry stumbled through them, the letters shifting and turning around on him, and he made his distress known through writing. It was difficult, writing the letters he saw, and signing the ones he had learned, and knowing his progress wasn't good from the frown on his teacher's, and the nurse's, face.

Swallowing, he continued on despite his discomfort. When he finished, Mr. Figg took him to the office and called his aunt.

When he was left alone, he slipped out his journal to write: _Trouble, Tom. I have to go home early. Eyes no good._

The pages warned under his hand, and four words came forth: _All will be well._

Harry wasn't sure if he should cry or smile.

* * *

His uncle wasn't happy. It was a week since he had to visit an eye specialist, and Harry _knew_ his uncle wasn't happy. The bill from the ophthalmologist sent Vernon into a fit, his face purple with his rage. It was the first time his uncle actually raised a hand to him. Scared witless, his aunt's shocked outcry and his cousin's wide gaze, did not deter him from storming out of the house with the bill clutched in hand. Harry fled from the scene, and curled up in his cupboard with a steadily swelling jaw.

As he sat curled up on his bed, tears staining the pages as his pencil shook in his grasp, sharp, crisp letters formed on the page: _Why are you crying?_

There was something angry in the way it was written, almost urgent, and Harry shakily answered: _I got hurt._

_Your uncle? _The words came slower this time, and Harry rubbed his face on his sleeve as he said: _No. I fell._

The book _hissed _under his hand, burning hot, and Harry's heart leapt in his chest. His words had been sloppier than usual, and Harry cursed his trembling hand. He didn't _want_ Tom to worry about him, and, as he watched his words sink into the pages, black bleed across the page before vanishing. A shiver swept down his spine, his hair standing on end. Slowly, the words thick and cuttingly sharp, five words scrawled across the page: _Do Not Lie To Me._

Tom was angry. Harry could sense it in the words, in the pages, in the leather. It was almost as if the book was surrounding him, pressing upon his senses, and Harry swallowed. In the sharp gloom, he watched as the words came again: _Did your uncle hurt you, Harry?_

He slammed the book shut, and stuffed it under his pillow. The side of his face hurt, stinging with pinpricks of pain, and he was forced to sleep on his other side, his scar facing away from his pillow. He didn't return to school for three weeks.

In the weeks that followed, he made sure to keep _everything _spotless. He got up early to clean, and was out of sight with breakfast on the table when his uncle came into the kitchen. His aunt was stern as ever, but she made sure to move him to a different location whenever Vernon was home. Dudley kept up with Harry Hunting whenever he had the chance, and it often led chasing him into the yards surrounding their home.

Harry's hair continued to grow, several inches below his chin when he tried on his glasses for the first time, and he stared in awe as the world shivered and came together as a clear picture. It was like art. His aunt stood behind him as he eyed himself in the mirror, the glasses already fitted to his face, and he pulled his bangs out of the way to admire the black, wire frames. The bruise was gone, but a phantom pain lingered in its place.

He turned, and gestured to the glasses. Petunia tilted her head to the side, her brow furrowed, before she said, "They suit you."

She turned to the man watching them, and said, "I also want to buy an extra set, glass cleaner, and an extra case for the second pair."

The man logged in the order, and the purchase was made. Petunia grasped his hand in hers as they stepped outside, and he tightened his hold on her hand tightly in his as the city sprung up before him in startling clarity. She didn't move, only stared at him, as he gazed upon the city of London with wonder before a smile pulled at his mouth. He stepped past her, small movements as he turned to gaze upon his surroundings, and he turned to look at his aunt with a wide, flashing smile. Her expression softened, her features less harsh, and let him sit in the front seat when they got in the car.

The return to 4 Privet Drive was silent, and Harry was put the work the moment the car pulled into the garage. Over the past few years, he had thought he had gotten accustomed to odd things happening when he was around, though he was never surprised when something new happened to him. His life tilted off from the normal flow of things a week after he had his glasses.

Kneeling in the garden outside, pulling out the weeds so they would not overtake or taint the soil, Harry shivered as the cold settled upon his skin. It was mid-November, almost October, and the temperature was dropping rapidly. He was elbow-deep in dirt, sweat clinging to his face and neck, his hair hanging around him like a dark curtain, and he angrily pushed it out of his face. He needed to have his aunt cut it before it got to long. He didn't _like _having it in his way.

He sat back on his haunches, sweating and thirsty, and eyed the house. It was getting cold, and he had yet to be called inside. It was almost dark when his aunt came to get him, and she slipped inside first with him on her heels. He washed his arms and hands with lukewarm water before making dinner. Vernon had appeared in the kitchen, silent, and Petunia had went off into the other room to find Dudley.

Harry knew his uncle was there when his shadow fell over him, and he paused in the middle of his preparations. He turned slowly, knowing his uncle wanted something, and the man was staring him down. When Vernon reached for him, Harry bolted. It was an action inspired by the sharp feeling of unease, his eyes wide and palms sweating. He dropped to the ground, darted between Vernon's legs, and was halfway across the kitchen when he was hauled backwards by the hair.

"Did I say you could go, you ungrateful cretin!?" Harry was thrown back to the stove, his arm falling across the burner and hot oil flew through the air. A shrill cry escaped, the oil splashing his neck and arm, and a heavy weight kept him in place as tears flowed freely from his eyes. The scent of burning flesh lifted into the air, and, in the doorway, he heard his aunt yelling as the overhead lights began flickering. Then they erupted, and the dishes set along the counter shattered into countless shards of glass. His uncle stumbled away, and Harry slide down to the ground, clutching his arm to his chest. Everything was blurring, a hazy settling over his senses, and voices were distorted, "...told you...bad...rid of it_...absolutely_ not...fine...call the...say nothing..."

Harry wasn't sure when he collapsed. When he came around, he was in a white room, arm bandaged, and his journal rested innocently under his other hand.

Tom's diary was warm, vibrating slightly, and Harry swallowed thickly as the incident sprung up in his mind's eye. A small, chocked sob broke past his lips, inhuman sounding in the silence of the room, as a new sense of fear stole over him. Curling his fingers around the journal, pulling it up to his chest and pressing his cheek against the warm cover, Harry allowed himself to cry for the first time he could remember.

The journal absorbed the tears when they splashed its surface, and, as he rocked himself in the wide bed, he felt something brush against his hand. Looking up, seeing a blurry shape coming onto his hand, Harry lifted the limb to better see what critter had found its way to him. A watery smile appeared when the eight-legged insect fluttered its legs, a ticklish feeling dancing under its movements. Spiders. Harry _liked _spiders. They were kind.

As he eased himself deeper into the bed, Harry relaxed.

He wasn't alone. As he stroked the journal's back, feeling it shiver as his nails caressed the spine, Harry knew he never would be. Not as long as he had Tom.


	4. Books Make Kings

**Author's Note**: This is the fourth installment of _'When Darkness Sings._'

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Winter slipped into the lives of the Dursleys with a cold sense of detachment, and a sense of trepidation settled over Harry every time he eyed his journal.

Tom was insistent on getting answers, but the small, raven-haired boy _knew _he couldn't answer his friend's questions. He had a feeling Tom knew the truth, but Harry couldn't bring himself to outright admit what the book was trying to pull out of him. Vernon wasn't nice, by anyone's standards, but he was still his uncle. He was _family. _Didn't that _count_ for something? There was no lost love, but wasn't blood something he was supposed to cling to?

As the cold grasp of winter curled icy fingers around his heart, Harry simply existed. His left arm stayed close to his side, the skin a hauntingly hue of silver against the tan surrounding it. A silver island in a sea of sand. Harry was happy that his chores were indoors, though he did have to shovel snow every-so-often. It was cold work, a chill that settled into his bones and marrow, but he never complained. Vernon got angry when he complained, and Harry knew what would happen if he upset his uncle.

As of now, sitting in the the living-room of Mrs. Figg's home, Harry wanted nothing more than to go to his cupboard and curl up. Mrs. Figg herself was sitting next to the hearth, one of her cats sitting in her lap, drinking a warm cup of tea. Mr. Figg, tall and warm, sat next to him as he helped him through the sentences decorating the pages of his latest assignment.

The books sitting at their feet were small chapter books, and, after reading each one, his teacher would quiz him on the material. He was rarely wrong.

Ever since his trip to the hospital, he increased his time studying. It was a good way to shove the steadily growing violence his uncle harbored, and made it easy to ignore the marks coloring his arms and sides. He had found a few books on human anatomy in the library, and checked them out. For several long minutes, the librarian gave him a long look before filing them under his name. He also had several on Earth Science and Literature, two subjects he liked.

History was one subject he detested in class, and math followed in its shadow. Mr. Figg, however, took the time to teach him anything which caught his interest during their two-hour study sessions. Those few hours, coming three times a week, were the hours he longed for.

"You'll be seven in a little over six months," Mr. Figg was saying as Harry signed an answer to one of the questions, "It's almost January."

Harry eyed his teacher for a moment before nodding. It _was _almost January. The New Year celebration was taking place that very night, though Harry knew the first of January wasn't till morning. It was the _last _day of December, and he was looking forward to the melting of the snow so the water would come back in tiny streams and powerful rivers. He signed another answer, and wrote the answer to a different one when he couldn't figure out how to arrange it with his hands. Handing the paper over, Harry stood and excused himself to the backroom with an excuse of wanting to take a nap. Mr. Figg smiled kindly, and handed him a blanket.

"Just in case it's cold." He explained, and Harry nodded. He was stepping away when his teacher added, "Don't forget your pencils. We don't want the cats eating them, do we?"

Flushed, Harry took his writing utensils and scurried to the spare bedroom at the back of the house. He closed the door, and plopped down on his stomach. Next to the bed was his bag, black and worn, and he carefully eased his journal out of it. Unwrapping the silk covering, he stroked the cover with a fond smile and opened his art box. He carefully opened the book, and blinked at the message resting there passively.

_We need to talk, Harry. _He debated on closing the book, knowing Tom wouldn't let him slip by without a conversation, and, as if completely aware Harry was there, the book heated up as a new sentence swept across the page: _There are a few things I've been meaning to ask you, but other...situations seemed to have gotten me off track._

The words were dark, stark and crisp against the cream-colored paper it was written in, and Harry envied how the writing curved. He tried writing in pen on a few occasions, but it go nowhere near as close to the thin lines on the page. Pushing those thoughts aside, Harry pressed pencil to paper as he responded, with a sense of apprehension: _What kind of things?__  
_

The words sank in the page, and then the letters started to flow: _You mentioned that your uncle was angry, that you broke the lights and kitchenware. Before you so abruptly vanished, you had also said it wasn't the first time something like that happened. Before I go on, child, I need to know if you're alone._

Harry remembered _that _day well. He talked to Tom while he was in the hospital. Tom had not reacted well, and all the equipment in the room overheated as the book burned with a sense of uncontrollable anger. Or rage, as Tom had called it. Stroking the words, he carefully answered: _I am at Mrs. Figg's house. My family is celebrating the New Year tonight. Mr. Figg and Mrs. Figg are in the other room._

_What is the chance they'll come in? _Tom questioned him, and Harry frowned. He couldn't say, really, though he did know he would have some time by himself because he said he wanted to take a nap. Relaying this information to Tom, the book quivered, almost as if laughing, before it said: _Aside from you not using a quill, I wanted to know if any **other**_ _kind of 'odd things' have happened._

Harry worried his lip between his teeth, uncertain of how he should answer. He didn't know what a quill was, but he thought he could answer the other inquiry his companion made, and he hesitated only a moment before he answered: _A lot of odd things happen around me. Uncle Vernon calls it freakish stuff, and -_

_It is **not **freakish, child, what you do. It is natural._ Harry blinked at the journal, mildly surprised that it cut into his sentence with such force. Pulling his pencil away, he observed: _People like you and me, people who can do things others cannot, are feared. We are feared because we are **better **than them. Stronger. More capable. We can accomplish things muggles can only **dream **of, child._

There was a sort of passion coming from the words, fueled by the diary's emotions. The pages quivered under his fingers, and a gentle wind stirred the curtains in the room, the loose ends of the cover, as Harry stared in awe. He eyed the word 'muggle' with confusion, but dared not interrupt. Tom had a temper when the need arose, and cutting into the middle of one of his monologues could send him into a fit. In a way, with the way he acted, he reminded Harry of the Mob bosses he saw on Drama shows his aunt watched during the weekend. They were good with their words, could sway _anyone _to their side, and have such a burning passion for what they believed that _nothing _would get in the way of them achieving their goals.

_The more I learn about you, the more I begin to think a theory of mind is true. _Tom continued, and Harry blinked. He leaned in as the words continued, eyes wide as the other said: _It took me some time, but your last name, Potter, is one I know. At first, it was hard for me to place where I heard it from, and then, after some time contemplating it, I remembered. You and I, Harry, we are one and the same. It is almost like I can see your heart. The strange things that happen, how things vanish and reappear, how you're able to speak with me. It's all connected._

Tom was excited. Harry could feel it in the words, almost hear them, as if they were whispered in the air and in his ear: _I cannot believe how ignorant I have been about this. Now, however, **now I understand.**_ _Do you want to know a secret, Harry? Something which applies to us? Do you want to know **why **your uncle hates you so much?_

Harry glanced at the door, at the clock above it, and swallowed. There was still an hour before his guardians would pick him up, and he highly doubted Mrs. Figg, or Mr. Figg, would intrude on him. Picking up his pencil, feeling Tom's excitement seeping into his skin when he pressed the tip against the paper: _A secret? I would like to no._

_Know, Harry. You would like to know. _Tom corrected before plowing forward: _You're magic. I'm magic. We're magic. Things which shouldn't happen do when we're involved. Halfblood, Pureblood, Mudblood - it doesn't matter! Magic is the air which feeds our lunges. Without it, we're just like those muggles._

Harry stared at the page, blinking, as the words sat there as if they would never leave. More words he did not know came up, neat and precise, and Harry eyed the last one, Mudblood, with a sense of dislike. It sounded like an insult. Harry didn't _like _insults. They didn't solve anything. He thought about telling Tom that, and when his pencil acted without his consent and spelled the words across the page, the rant stopped mid-sentence. Harry felt his breath catch, and then the pages were quivering with a light heat that Harry associated with laughter. Tom was _laughing _at him.

Harry didn't think he liked that _either. _He didn't know what his friend thought was funny, and, as Harry picked up his pencil to continue writing, he heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. He slammed the book shut, stuffed it into his bag, and darted off the bed. He knew it was only a matter minutes before Mrs. Figg came to get him. Or Mr. Figg. Harry hoped Mr. Figg would be the one coming in.

Just as he was swinging his bag over his shoulder, the door opened and the kind teacher stood in the doorway with a knowing smile on his face. Harry eyed the man before he slipped past him, into the hallway, and entered the front-room where Petunia stood waiting for him. She had a small bag in hand, and she handed it to him when he was close enough. As he opened his mouth to question her, she said, "Put it in your backpack, Harry. You could look at it when you go to bed tonight."

Harry stowed the bag away, and bowed to Mrs. and Mr. Figg before following his aunt into the cold outside. His thick sweatshirt was enough to starve out the cold, but it wasn't like 4 Privet Drive was far off. If he felt like it, he could have _walked _back to the Dursleys. It would have been a cold walk, but it wouldn't have had a major impact on his health.

Though, as he walked up to the car, his arm tingled and imprints of pain shot up to his left shoulder when the end of the scar rested. He could still feel the oil, hot and greasy, as he climbed into the vehicle to sit next to his cousin. Dudley didn't look at him, but Harry noticed him fidgeting with his hands. Chancing a quick look at his uncle, Harry felt his stomach sink at the thunderous expression his uncle wore. Lowering his gaze to his lap, Harry prayed to whatever entity was out in the world that his uncle wouldn't redirect his anger at him.

* * *

Pain was a feeling Harry was use to.

As he colored in a picture, the other students surrounding him, he frowned. His uncle was always angry. Harry blamed it on the foul smelling drink he ingested. As he observed the picture he was working on, the blue going out of the line, he thought of how his uncle advanced on him. He was like a picture to be colored in. If he set a foot out of line, he would be in trouble. He was supposed to stay _in _the line, not go _out of it. _Rubbing absently at his arm, a sliver of pale skin peeking out from under his sleeve, Harry leaned away from his table. Perhaps he could add some glitter? He overheard Dudley saying it was auntie's birthday today, and he wanted to make her something nice after she snatched some chocolate for him on the last day of December. He still had half the block left, the fudge rick and thick.

He felt guilty for not being able to talk to Tom in the past month-and-a-half. His auntie wanted to clean the entire house, including the dank basement, and Harry was to tired at the end of the day to write. Now, however, a _different_ sort of news had his stomach twisting with unease. Auntie Marge, who wasn't _really _his Auntie Marge, was coming to visit. For a week. With Ripper. The thought of that dog made him sick to his stomach, and he frowned.

Sitting on the table, innocent and unnoticed, was his journal. Brushing his fingers across the surface, feeling the cover heat up, Harry knew that Tom, somehow, understood why he had not said a word to him since their confusing conversation at Mrs. Figg's house. Inwardly, Harry knew recess was soon to start, but he didn't feel like running away from Dudley and his friends. Kindergarten was ending in May, a little over four months away. Then he would start First Grade, though he wasn't sure what he thought about that.

It wasn't long before Mr. Figg shooed them from the room, and Harry was left wandering through the hallways. Students mulled about around him, none of them stopping to talk, and he spotted glimpses of Dudley and his friends up the hall. Biting his lip, brushing his hand against the bag which carried Tom, he wondered if he _could _talk to him. Making up his mind, he steered away from the main hall to find a small cache to crawl into. He could see the outside world, beyond the fence the students couldn't pass, on the other side of the small gate.

_It'd be easy to escape through here. _Harry smiled lightly to himself, making a mental note in his mind of the cache's location, his own secret treasure, and pull the journal out from his backpack. Resting the black book on his legs, his feet pressed against the wall a bit over his head but stretched out fully, he opened the book: _Tom? Are you there?_

_I'm surprised you haven't finished your fudge yet, child. _The book answered, and Harry blinked. _I often find myself questioning your aunt's goals in the small gifts she gives to you. I hope you are not thinking of running, however. You would not get far, not as young as you are._

He still hadn't figured out how Tom knew the things he did. Did the book have eyes he couldn't see. Lifting the journal up, inspecting it, he frowned. Turning his attention back to the pages, he answered: _I want it to last. I don't know when I'll get more. Running would only get me in trouble._

_Only if you're caught, child. Only if you're caught. _Tom answered before adding: _Have you thought on what I said? About our magic?_

Harry _had _thought on it. He wasn't sure what he believed, but, wetting his lips, he said: _I think you are right. But, if that is the case, would that not mean you are a real person?_

_I was, once upon a time. _Tom's answer was slow, almost as if he was calculating how much to tell him, and then the words came again: _I'm as real as you are, though I am trapped. I have not seen the light of the sun in a very long time._

Recess ended some time after, and Tom's words drifted through his thoughts for the rest of the day. The end of his pencil trapped between his teeth, a copy of _Alice in Wonderland _sitting in front of him, Harry wondered if the story within also could be used to describe Tom's situation. Could he be released? Was there someway to open the proverbial rabbit hole and let him out of the storybook he was trapped within? It was a thought that followed him home from the Dursleys, and it chased him into the house and throughout his chores.

If magic put Tom in the diary, could magic pull him out?

The thought tickled his senses, and drifted over him deep into the night. Sitting in his cupboard, a light smile pulling at his features as a spider drifted from the rafter onto his shoulder, he wondered if it was possible. Harry didn't know any spells, and he wasn't sure if Tom could cast any from the confines of his papery prison. He watched as the eight-legged critter weaved between his fingers, smaller than the others, and smiled as it attached a web to his skin and let it glide off his hand to hover in the air. A second joined the first, and a third joined the second until he had an interesting pattern of colorful critters dangling around him. He knew his uncle would have a fit if he saw the spiders, as would _any _big person, but he didn't find any fault in the creatures.

They had every right to live as he did. They were no less important, no less vital to the way things worked in the circle of life. Tom had every right to be walking among others. Surely he had been within the journal for long enough? In the backdrops of his mind, he could visual what he thought his friend would sound like, what he would look like, and how he would hold himself. Laying back, head cushioned by his pillow, his journal pulled onto his chest, Harry watched the spiders with a sense of wonder. In his mind's eye, Tom would be like a king, and his uncle would be the lowly butcher in an out-of-sight village. The differences were as different as light against darkness, as conflicting as day against night.

And Harry couldn't think of a reason he would wish it otherwise.


	5. Marge Arrives

**Author's Note**: This is the fifth installment of _'When Darkness Sings._'

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When the day for Marge Dursley to arrive at 4 Privet Drive, Harry was pleasantly surprised to see she did not.

A lingering, nagging sensation drifted on the edge of his senses, telling him this was only a delay, but, as days turned to weeks, the dread was soon erased from his system. He spent whatever time he could talking to Tom, and, as time passed, he found himself finding similarities. Tom was an orphan, just like he was, and Harry fond it to be a blessing. Someone else shared the sense of being alone in a world where no one else understood them. It was a feeling he would liken to a bird flying for the first time: free with no one to tell it where it could go.

Tom was a privet person, though, and whatever he did say about himself was small and, at times, trivial. He liked the color green, for instance. He ranted about something called muggles, though Harry had yet to ask him what a muggle was. He was afraid of the answer. He had a distinct fear it was the magic word for needle, and he _really _didn't want to know if it was so. True or not.

The end of his first year came and summer slipped into the lives of the Dursleys. In under two months, he would turn seven, and Dudley eight. Yet, as the days passed, Marge still did not appear. Dudley's birthday passed, fifteen presents total, four more than the year before, but Vernon's sister had made no sign she would be coming near. July hit, the Fourth passing in a volley of fireworks and loud noise as a few of those down the street celebrated a Holiday Harry couldn't quite understand, and the rest of the month passed as slow as a snail trying to cross the yard. Mentally, Harry counted the days down to his own birthday.

Twenty-seven.

Nineteen.

Thirteen.

_Seven._

Curled up in his cupboard, his journal open and an assortment of colored pencils surrounding him, Harry continued his sketch of a birthday cake. Seven candles dotted the top, the icing a mixture between green leaves, black lettering, and gold flowers. He smiled happily at the picture, knowing _this _one was better because it was in a book where it would be stored forever instead of being erased by his sleeping body in the middle of the night. He could hear Petunia moving around outside his cupboard, muttering to herself about boys and men being useless and lazy, before his door swung open. She motioned him out of the small space, her hair loose and wavy.

The change was starting, and Harry could only stare. Petunia met his gaze, "What?"

_'Your hair, auntie.' _Harry signed, hands moving slowly to form the words she was beginning to learn. Her eyes narrowed, and he quickly finished, _'It looks good.'_

Petunia nodded, and turned away. Harry saw a light dusting of pink on her face, and cocked his head in wonder. She brushed past him into the kitchen, and, after a moment, ushered him into the kitchen. Harry followed her within, and, to his surprise, a small breakfast was waiting on the table. When he stood there staring, she pinched the bridge of her nose before saying, "Harry, sit down."

Harry took a seat in the chair, eyeing the food. It was an odd assortment of fruits, sliced garlic bread on the side, with a fresh class of Kool-Aid. Or, at least he _hoped _it was Kool-Aid. Petunia sat across from him, hands folded on the table - her nails were painted red, he noted with wonder - and she looked far younger sitting as she was than how she normally appeared. Brushing her hair out of her face, she murmured, "I don't believe I ever told you July 31st is the day you were born, Hadrian."

Harry slowly turned his gaze upon his aunt. A sinking feeling settled into his stomach as she looked at the table, a light frown marring her face. It was paler than usual, lacking the creamy tan foundation she often applied before _everyone _was awake. Yet, for this moment, she appeared to be someone else. Her eyes was outlined with dark, sunken circles. She looked tired, worn, and Harry frowned.

"Seven years, Hadrian Potter, I have had you under my care." She whispered, her knuckles white. "Seven years it took me to realize you aren't a stranger, but the child my sister, my sweet little sister, gave life to."

She wasn't looking at him, her eyes directed at the table. Harry could hear someone coming up behind him, and it was followed by, "Mum?"

Harry turned to see Dudley standing behind him, his sleeping bottoms twisted, and turned back to his aunt as she said, "It took one visit from that-that-that _man _for me to remember. Even my little Duddikins has been acting differently. Changing as we are _meant _to change. Sometimes I think he might, that he might..."

"Might what, mama?" Dudley laid a hand on Petunia's arm, his watery blue eyes concerned. "Mum? Are you okay, mum?"

Petunia's mouth opened, words coming out without sound, before she whispered, "Happy Birthday, Hadrian."

It was as if his word was set on fire, tilting out of balance. She scooted his plate closer, and Harry ate a full breakfast. Vernon was at work, and he wouldn't return until dinner. He had stayed overnight to finish a business transaction, and, as an extended gift, chores were suspended for the day. Again Harry found himself on the couch, his journal propped on his knee, with his aunt at his side and his cousin on the ground playing a video game. The gentle hum of the game wrapped around them, and the soft scratch of pencils against paper lulled him into a comfortable trance.

He was sitting on the other side of the couch this time, facing his aunt, and his gaze shifted from her to the page in front of him. Line-after-line, in black-and-white, he placed her upon paper. Absently, he colored her eyes in, a deep brown with flecks of gold, so that it stood out. Looking at the picture, at his aunt, he could not help but wonder. Slowly, looking up, he caught his aunt's eye.

"What?"

Swallowing, Harry asked, _'My mum, auntie. Do you think...'_

He trailed off, uncertain, and lowered his eyes to his lap. A long moment passed before Petunia murmured, "Lily was a year younger than I, just like Dudley is a year older than you. She was bright, despite being young. You have her eyes."

Harry's gaze shot up to his aunt's, their gazes clashing, and he smiled. _'Thank you, auntie.'_

"Don't expect it often, boy." She muttered as she returned to her knitting, but not before Harry noticed Dudley's interested gaze. The older boy returned to the television, racing his car along a track, and a calm quiet settled over the house. Harry's gaze returned to the book, and he blinked to see a message scrawled across the bottom of his page: _I take it that this woman is your aunt?_

Glancing at his relatives, Harry wrote: _My Auntie Petunia. Dudley's mother._

_It's rather obvious which side of the bloodline the beast takes after in appearance, and it isn't that muggle aunt of yours. _Harry blinked, and then his brow furrowed. Touching the letters, feeling them under his skin, he sighed. Pressing his pencil to the paper, he wrote: _What is a muggle? You don't seem to like it very much._

There was a stillness to the book, and Harry went back to filling out his picture as he waited for an answer. Sometimes Tom didn't answer right away, though he wondered what _else _Tom could do with his time inside a journal. Perhaps he was merely waiting for him to finish the picture he was drawing so that he could have his undivided attention. When he finally pulled the pencil away, the sketch of his aunt sank into the pages of the book and words replaced it.

_A muggle is a person without magic. _Tom's answer was smooth, steady, and it was followed by: _They're normal, limited by their bodies and their 'Laws of Science' they so readily cling to. As for not liking 'them,' Harry, we can both say they are not held in high favor on my part. Nor should they on yours._

Harry looked at his aunt, his cousin, as the word settled into his brain: _Then what about those other terms?_

_Which ones? _The answer was swift, and Harry smiled as he asked: _The halfblood and pureblood and all that._

_Perhaps we should save this conversation for when we're alone. _Harry was dismissed, and the journal quietened as the words sank into the page. On the other end of the sofa, Petunia was standing up. Blinking, he watched her move out of the room while Dudley, who was in the middle of turning of his game, sat back on his haunches before rising onto his feet.

It was then that Harry heard it, a loud, telling knock on the door more akin to someone trying to force it open. Harry quickly stowed his journal away, and locked the cupboard before vanishing upstairs. In the hallway, he heard Petunia open the door and glanced down the stairs to see _who _was coming to visit the house. His stomach dropped, and, standing in the threshold, was none other than Marge Dursley. A day which was light suddenly became heavy.

* * *

Marge Dursley, sister of Vernon Dursley, was a woman of standards.

Any nonsense was not to be tolerated, and, as it came with the family her brother married into, _other _things had to be accounted for. She dropped her trunk onto the ground, eyed her sister-in-law, and then smiled when Dudley stepped into her sight. It was like light fell upon the hallway as she exclaimed, "Oh, Dudley, my dear child, how you have grown!"

He was the _perfect _Dursley. She swept him into a hug, and she felt small arms wrap around her. Eyeing the rest of the hallway, she was pleased to see the Dursleys' main pest was nowhere to be seen. She couldn't stand the small, impish child. Yet, spotting movement out of the corner of her eye, she saw gleaming green eyes in the shadows of the upstairs hallway. Ripper, who was at her side, began to growl.

"Petunia, dear, I haven't seen your hair like _that _before." Marge wrinkled her nose, watching the shewed woman with a sharp gleam. Petunia raised one pale eyebrow in question as she retorted, "Oh, you know how it goes with children. Near impossible to keep things where they _should _be."

Green eyes vanished, and she heard the faint sound of a door closing upstairs. She wondered if the boy talked any, though he knew his silence could be heavy when the situation demanded it. Ripper, though, Ripper made him talk. Her attention refocused to the woman in front of her when Petunia said, "The boy will make sure everything is as it should be in your room. I take it you will be staying for some time?"

"Two weeks." Marge replied, leaving her bags in the middle of the hallway, and pulled Dudley along with her. "Tell me, sweets, what do _you _do for fun?"

"Besides playing my games, I chase _him _around." Dudley responded, almost as if he was bored, before adding, "Sometimes I get him trapped in the tree out back, and he stays up there all day if my friends and I are in the yard. Dad locked him out of the house last week."

"At least order is being maintained." Marge followed them into the kitchen, and sat at the table. The house, as always, was impossibly clean. Eyeing the stairs, and her missing bags, the smile on her face was one many have called predatory. She simply thought of it as an expression of taking advantage of whatever opportunities presented themselves to her. Idly glancing at Mrs. Dursley, she asked, "I hope that wretch still has his cage."

"Locked up each night." Petunia said, her gaze focused on the paper.

_Good. That's where one of _their _kind should be._

Yes, he was where she wanted him.

* * *

Harry didn't like Ripper.

Ripper didn't like Harry.

It was common knowledge, and the dog was a nightmare to be around. Perched on the top of the stairs, the scents of dinner wafting through the house, the small boy eyed the best at the foot of the staircase with a frown. The dog returned his ire, ears penned back and teeth bared. In the stare-down, Harry knew the dog was _not _going to let him down the stairs without some kind of altercation. Ripper just wasn't that kind of dog.

_'Harry,' _The raven-haired boy blinked, and a sharp whimper came from the dog. Harry eyed the window, the glass frosted over with an imprint of a trailing hand pressed against the surface, and shuddered. _'Harry.'_

A hand ran down his back, and then the chill vanished as Vernon began screaming, _"Boy, turn the heat back up! Are you trying to freeze us out of the house!?"_

Harry eyed Ripper, knowing he had to get past him to get to the gauge. He knew it wasn't going to happen, and he _knew _his uncle wasn't going to be happy about it. A cold wind brushed against his ankles, and Harry saw the curtains stirring as it moved past them. He swallowed. He wasn't sure what _that _was, though it seemed to have a mind of its own.

_Tom would know. _Harry thought to himself as he took a step down the stairs, eyes glued on the dog. _Tom always knows._

_"Boy!" _Harry could hear a chair scrape across the floor in the kitchen, and swallowed as his uncle came into the hallway. Vernon backtracked as he reached the steps when the vase on the stand crashed into the floor, glass and water covering the floor. The dog backed away, its eyes glued to the shifting curtains and iced windows. Tail between its legs, ears back, it began to bark. _"Boy, _I warn you, whatever you're doing, _stop."_

Harry wanted to tell Vernon he _wasn't _doing anything. He didn't know _what _was causing this disturbance, and he _knew _it wasn't Tom. Tom wouldn't do this, not when he knew Harry didn't want them hurt. _We fight about it enough as it is. Tom's a good person. He's nice. He's honest. He wouldn't break his promise._

Harry's gaze dropped to the water, eyes widening as it moved as if someone was walking through. Ripper fled from the hallway, and Vernon, breathing heavily and face ashen, stepped back. Something heavy, something _dark, _had fallen over the house. Harry could feel it, smell it, and his gaze moved to the bag sitting innocently on the stairs. Whatever it was, it seemed to drift around _that._

"Boy?" Petunia was in the hallway, Marge and Dudley on her heel. "What are you doing up there!?"

_'The bag,' _Harry signed, eyeing it with a sense of unease, _'It's the bag.'_

Petunia was whispering to Vernon who, with a furious glare, shouted, "Marge would never bring something belonging to an _abomination _into our household!"

Harry wasn't expecting the harsh sound of skin-on-skin, nor his aunt to hit the wall. Arms falling limp at his side, eyes wide, he watched as Petunia placed a hand to her cheek with tears in her eyes. Her voice was low, quivering, as she whispered, "I never said that. He, he - "

"You'll take the word of a _freak _over the word of your blood?" Vernon snarled, and Petunia's eyes narrowed. "The boy may be abnormal, but his blood _is my blood through my sister. _That very same blood runs _in our son!"_

The floor quivered, pulsing, and the air grew heavy. Harry eyed the bag, a sinking feeling lingering in his gut. He wasn't expecting to see some form of black fog drift out of it, nor small, black spheres to bounce down the steps. Marge was angry. She kept screaming, but Harry couldn't hear. His scar, his _face, _was burning something fierce. It was like his uncle had hit him again, right across the scar, and he doubled over.

In the air, a faint hissing sound echoed. It was as if the house was sending off a message, and he could feel it in his blood. In his mind. Whatever Marge had brought into the house, it wasn't friendly. It wasn't like. It wasn't Tom. _It wasn't Tom._

A flash of green shined in his mind's eye. Someone screamed. The door splintered.

He wasn't sure who cried out, the house suddenly loud.

He only knew pain and red, red, red.


	6. Of Snakes and Memories

**Author's Note**: This is the sixth installment of _'When Darkness Sings._'

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Something wasn't adding up.

Harry could _feel _it. As he struggled under layers of oppressive energy, cold like water and hot like fire, he tried to grasp a rational explanation. Sirens were going off in the distance, smoke clogged the halls, and his ears were ringing. Sitting up, his side and arm screaming in protest, glasses in a place he could not reach, he idly wondered _how _he managed to get in the living-room. It was then, as panic flooded through him, that he noticed the flames._  
_

The television was lying on its side, broken, and the couch upturned. Smoke swirled lazily in the room, as if guided by an unseen hand. Without his glasses, he could not _see _where the others were. He could not hear them, hear anything, outside of the shrill ringing in his ears. Then his gaze moved to the cupboard, to a defenseless Tom waiting patiently inside for him to talk to him, and his blood ran cold.

"H-Harry!" He dove under the grasping arms of someone, and tore into his cupboard. _Tom. Tom!_

Coughing, hot air flaming across his body, he snatched up the diary and stuffed it into his pocket before grabbing his art box. An arm wrapped around his hips, hauled him backwards, and he struggled. _Who's touching me!? Let go! Don't touch me!_

"Calm yourself, Harry!" Mr. Figg's voice was next to his ear, and then the teacher said, "The house is burning. We need to get _out of here, _Hadrian Potter. The journal's fine!"

They were moving, shadows dancing across the wall. A sharp pain shot through his head, and he felt the scar twist. It was like something was under it, a cold hand clawing at the healed flesh to make it bleed as the shadows swept down on him. Clawing at the arm holding him, tears in his eyes, Harry whimpered as he felt a cold, icy grasp wrap around him.

A murmured word, and then darkness.

* * *

Voices whispered, and a warm hand stroked his hair out of his face as someone said, "I didn't have a choice. I had to put him to sleep."

"What if someone saw?" A different voice, softer but with an edge. "You _know _he's only a child. Casting _Somnus_ on him? What were you _thinking!? _You _know _someone could have seen! The _muggles _could have seen!"

"They were already out." The voice was gentle, and, as Harry struggled to grasp the conscious realm, he realized he _knew _who was speaking. Mr. Figg's words were gentle, almost regretful, as he whispered, "There wasn't any time. The artifact, it was dark. Mad-Eye's talking to the sister. We'll figure out where she got it, and _how _they know. Didn't he...didn't the Headmaster say he would be _safe _there?"

"I think he is coming to." Harry forced his eyes open, ignoring the way the world tilted and turned upon itself. A hand grasped his, warm and steady, and he sat up to see Mr. Figg smiling at him. His bangs were brushed out of his face, and then his glasses were pressed into his palm as his teacher said, "Does anything hurt, Harry?"

_'Is auntie alright?' _Harry signed, his gaze leaping across the room for Petunia. He didn't see the thin woman anywhere, and, breath catching, he turned back to Mr. Figg, _'Who are these people? Where am I?'_

"Why isn't he talking?" A woman reached for him, and the vase behind him shattered. She squeaked, and retracted her hand as his hands tightened in the cool covers draped across his lap. Mr. Figg stroked the back of his head, voice gentle as he said, "She's in the waiting room. You and Dudley got a bit banged up in the accident."

_'Accident?' _Harry eyed his teacher, eyes narrowed, and then asked, _'Who is Mad-Eye?'_

"A friend of mine." Mr. Figg murmured, and Harry looked about the room. Swallowing, he turned his gaze back to his teacher and the stick in his hand. Slowly bringing his gaze up to his instructor's face, a light frown marring his features, he signed, _'And what is that?'_

"It's something that will help you, Harry. You trust me, don't you?" Slowly, Harry nodded. A gentle hand brushed his hair out of his face, and he felt his muscles relaxing as he stared into Mr. Figg's eyes. The teacher held his gaze as he said, "What happened is stressful. You don't have to worry. When you go home, all of this will be nothing more than a dream. Can you close your eyes for me?"

_'Can I have my journal?' _A moment of silence filled the room, and then the small, black book was passed to him. He pulled his legs up to his chest, the small diary pressed between his legs and chest, and, after a moment, closed his eyes. The air was static, like when the confusion started, and he felt his teacher lift his arm, the stick he was holding lightly pressing against his forehead.

"Obliviate."

* * *

_And you can't remember what happened? _Harry stroked the words, comforted by Tom's words, and answered: _When I try, I get a headache. The law people said there was a gas leak under the house, and that's why everyone passed out._

The journal was oddly quiet, and Harry had a distinct feeling Tom was frowning. He watched the journal, some of his sketches littering the sides of the paper, with the attention a hawk as it watches its prey. Ever sense he woke in the hospital, the steady beat of the heart monitor the only sound in the room, Harry could not shake the feeling that _something _was off. He couldn't place his hand on it, but it was like there was something blocking him from putting the pieces together. As he explained his frustration to Tom, the journal had reacted with white heat and snide words.

_Damn bloody muggle. _Tom spat finally, his words a tad messier than normal. _Can't keep their hands off of something dangerous, can they? Bloody little shits._

Harry promptly ignored the swearwords, knowing his friend only swore when he wasn't in a good mood. His gaze went back to the journal as it said: _From what you have described, it looks like you have a memory charm place within you. So there are wizards who know where you are, and what you to stay there._

Harry didn't like that idea. If they knew where he lived, _who _he lived with, then wouldn't they know Vernon Dursley isn't a nice man? Wouldn't they be keeping tabs on the entire household, and not just him? Conveying his questions, as best as he could, Harry poured his fears, and rising anger, to the book. It sucked up the words, pulling them in as soon as the ink seeped into the paper, and then it was quiet.

Sometimes it took Tom a bit to answer his questions. At times, Harry thought he took extra time to word it so he could understand. Eyeing the book, holding his breath, he wondered what Tom might have to say on this new turn of events. Then, slowly, the words began to form: _If someone does know your location, then, chances are, they also have files on each member of your family. Those who you are in contact with, their jobs, when they come and go. If it was me, that's how I would do it. There is a chance they may know about the muggle's abuse, but there is also a chance they don't know. Our kind tend to keep out of sight when it comes to the swine we call our counterparts._

Frowning, slowly reading the words to himself, Harry leaned back into the wall. Sitting comfortably in his small room, spiders whispering over bare feet and shivering shoulders, Harry frowned. Marge was gone, thankfully, but the blank he kept drawing up in his mind seemed to branch off from her. He couldn't put a name to the feeling, aside from his intense dislike of the woman, and he ran a finger down the page. Lip quivering, a stray tear caressed his face before dripping to splash the page Tom was using to converse with him.

_...and that's - Harry? Child, why are you crying?_

Harry rubbed at his face, furious by the wetness as he scribbled: _I'm not crying._

_Harry. _The warning was there, but Harry really didn't want to go onto the subject Tom was pushing. As he tried to make up his mind, the book said: _Do not close my cover, child. Bottling it up will do you no good. You will feel better once you talk about it._

_Talk? When I **talk **__about it? _The anger hit, and his eyes narrowed as he told his friend: _I haven't **talked **since I was little. I cannot even remember what the words taste like! Now I have some kind of wall in my head, Vernon hates me, my aunt won't look at me, and Dudley's being a bloody jerk! What good will **talking **do when I don't have anyone to **talk **__to!?_

Tear after salty tear splashed the pages, his lines a blurred smudge, and a sense of guilt welled up in his chest. Swallowing, his cries caught in his throat, he said: _I'm sorry. I shouldn't get mad. Tom's my friend. Tom's nice._

_And I will never hurt you, Harry. _Harry blinked at the line, and, as the night wore on, cried.

* * *

Winter settled over England with an alarming intensity.

Harry often found himself locked in his cupboard, sides aching and discolored, and his aunt was cold. There was some kind of distance between her and Vernon, and whatever kindness she had shown him seemed to vanish in the weeks after he returned to the Dursleys. Dudley would chase him outside, in the snow, and he was forced to hide. As the last month of the year came closer and closer to an end, with Christmas closing in, he wondered what he could give to his friend. Sometimes he wished Tom was out of the book, that he was solid and _real, _but he kept those wishes to himself. Instead, he tried to find out a way for him to get his friend out of the book.

The more he thought on it, the more obsessed he became with the thought. Yet, no matter how many books he read, he could find nothing which could help him with the troubles he was having. Stepping into the shed out in the back, dunking into the darkness, he couldn't help but wondered if there was a way for Tom to get free. It seemed impossible, separating the book from the boy within. Though Harry wasn't sure if Tom really _was _a boy. He could be an adult. Or a girl. Harry shuddered at the last though.

_Tom's as much a girl as I am. _He turned over some wood, shooing the sleepy spiders off the wood, and stilled when something _else _made itself known. It was a low hissing sound, to sharp to be the sound of an angry cat. Yet he could hear the faint hisses, and there was a smell on the air he couldn't name. He wasn't sure what it was, but the sound, and the scent, was strong. He paused, head tilting to the side, and listened. Turning, trying to pinpoint its location, following the murmurs of_ 'cold, so cold' _to the back of the gardening shed, Harry was stumped to see no one in sight. Looking out the window, the yard was empty and clear.

_"'Cold, so cold.'"_ Harry eyed his surroundings, a stray breeze whipping his hair around him. The action was greeted by a sharp hiss, _"'Stay away...cold, it's so very cold...this one will bite you, two-legs...cold, so very cold...see if this one shan't.'"_

Harry couldn't find the speaker, and he twisted around to see if he could pinpoint where the sound was coming from. Then he spotted a movement in his peripheral vision, a slow turning in the darkness. A flash of color. Turning, heart pounding as he eyed the deep grass, he listened as the voice hissed, _"'Stay away, two-legs. Come no closer. This one will bite as surely as the cold bites this one.'"_

Harry had no way to assure whoever was speaking, no way to speak out or call for help should someone be lurking in the shadows he could not see into. So he held still, spotting the slow, twisting movement. Violet eyes peered out of the darkness, unblinking and surrounded in shadows. It rose, set deep into a triangular head, and his heart skipped a beat. He stepped back, and the snake hissed a warning. Harry froze, and watched as the small serpent came a bit closer.

_"'Move, two-legs, and this one will bite you. Cold, it is cold out there.'"_ It took every force of will in himself to keep himself from bolting as it brushed against his ankles, a sense of dread filling him as it curled around his ankle. Its gaze was on him, unwavering, as it hissed, _"'If only two-legs could understand. Then the cold would not be so cold.'"_

Harry slowly nodded, hoping the serpent would know the gesture. He was certain the snake was talking, almost to itself as it addressed him, and it paused. It rested over his knee, but he knew it had seen the gentle movement of his head before it would up the rest of his body to rest around his throat. _Don't bite me, please don't bite me!_

The snake lifted its head till it hovered before his, and was still for a long moment before its tongue flicked out of its mouth. He felt it brush against his nose, a ticklish sensation, and swallowed. _Gods, don't bite me!_

A sharp breath escaped from him when it pushed against his cheek, and he stumbled back against the cold metal of the shed's inner walls. He slide down, hands pressed against the iced dirt on either sides of him, as he stared at the colorful, small serpent that was long enough to loop around his neck. It was thin, so very thin, and he could feel the chilled skin of its body. It was cold, so very cold. Like ice.

_"'Does two-leg's have no words?'"_ The snake asked, watching him carefully as he slowly nodded his head. It swayed to the side as it asked, _"'Can two-leg's speak?'"_

Harry shook his head, and then nodded when it asked if he could understand it. It bobbed there, silent for a long while, before pulling away from his face with a careful slowness. _"'This one can smell your fear. This one shan't bite, not yet.'"_

Harry wasn't sure if he should be relieved or ill. However, he could feel a slight pressure in his head as it stared him in the eye that made his stomach lurch uncomfortably. His vision swam, and he leaned heavily against the wall as spots of black danced across his vision.

Yet, as he sat there, he could not bring himself to pull his eyes away from the snake's alluring gaze.

_'Rise, two-legs.'_ It was a faint whisper, almost as if dancing on the wind, and Harry startled. Where had that come from? A faint hissing sound came from the snake before he heard, _'One of the Noctis blood can do much, two-legged one. This one so much more than others.'_

The snake was in his head. It was in his head.

He stared at it, and then slowly climbed to his feet without taking his gaze off of it. Was it just a fluke, or was it really there, inside his mind?

_'In your thoughts, in the web of your memories,'_ The faint voice murmured as he walked, slow and careful. Then it added, _'One with the blood of the Noctis can do much, and linking to the web of your being is not hard.'_

The snake was talking to him. He was hearing it talk to him. He could understand it. That was not normal. Images of his uncle came to his mind, red-faced and angry, and the snake hissed. Harry hoped it didn't like meat all that much, though he figured it wouldn't matter if it poisoned him to death. He felt it press against the front of his throat, the cold body slipping under the neck of his shirt, and kept himself still as a voice murmured, _'This one shan't bite. This one can hear if web and venom merge.'_

Harry didn't like how that sounded, though the snake murmured, in the silence of his thoughts, _'Though two-legged one is not strong for merging. To weak.'_

He felt it slide down his skin to loop around his forearm beneath his elbow, and hissed with pain as something cut into his skin. He knew it was the fangs, and then the feeling was gone. As he stumbled back to the house, seeing his aunt looking for him at the threshold of the backdoor, he swept past her and collapsed on his pillow the moment he was within his cupboard. A type of sluggish, heaviness fell over him as the serpent slithered out of his sleeve to stare at him.

_'Web and venom cannot merge, not yet, but this one can merge web and blood.' _Harry eyed the snake, feeling his eyes droop as he watched it. _Web and blood,_ it keeps saying. _Web and blood. What _web?_ What_ blood?

_'Your web, two-legged one. This one's blood.' _The answer was faint, and Harry felt sleep clawing at him. Knowing it heard his thoughts, knowing it had, somehow, could read his mind, he threw his mind outward. _Stay out of sight. My family won't like you. Stay out of sight._

As dreams pulled him under, he reflected on how he played with deadly spiders and talked to books and snakes. He wasn't normal. It hurt, knowing that. As he drifted between the living and the dreaming, a black journal humming with solid heat against his skin, spiders watching with countless eyes, Harry wondered.

And, following him into the darkness, was blissful peace.


	7. Salazar's Namesake

**Author's Note**: This is the seventh installment of _'When Darkness Sings._'

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**Rating**: **T**

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It was winter, cold and hostile.

Harry was not expecting Madam Principal, he didn't _know _her name, to show up on the Dursley doorstep, but she did, and he had no choice but to sit between his aunt and uncle with the lady sitting across from them. The woman was a stern one, sharp eyes and hard features. She had a file in her hands, and he could glimpse the papers in it. He saw a picture of Dudley on one side, and, on the other side, was a picture of himself. Swallowing, nervous, he looked down at his hands.

"For the past two years, Harry has excelled beyond what we thought possible." The woman began, hands folded in her lap. "By all standards, having started school when he was six, we expect students to have a bit of difficulty when learning. He passed kindergarten with flying colors, at the top of his class, and, at the moment, is currently in the middle of his studies as a First Grade student."

She pulled her glasses off, and set them on the table as she continued, "His teachers have been keeping a close eye on him, and the extra studies he had with Mr. Figg proved to be an immense help to his growth. I spoke with the Board of Education, and, upon mutual agreement, decided it would be best to place him in a level more fitting to his educational growth."

"And what would _that _be?" Vernon asked, voice tight. The principal gave him a cold look as she responded, "Despite being seven, and being in First Grade, he is already showing many signs of higher thinking. He's on par with third grade, and, starting this fall, we would like to put him with Dudley to begin their studies as Third Grade students."

"You," Petunia drew in a deep breath, eyes wide, "You want _him _to skip a grade? Surely this is not a good idea!"

"Here's the test results," Madam Principal handed the papers over as she continued, "We ran several tests on his education level. We were not expecting him to pick up the material so readily, not as he did."

Harry swallowed, stiff when Vernon's hand landed on his knee. The grip was painful, but Harry kept his lips sealed as Madam Principal added, "I was hoping, however, that we have a professional take a look at him. At such a age, a child who doesn't speak is enough to have us worry."

"He hasn't spoken, not since the accident." Petunia rushed, eyes wide. "When his parents died, he was there. The ones who placed him in our care said it was to be expected, having experienced trauma at such a young age."

_"'Lies,'" _Harry stiffened upon hearing the voice, but kept his gaze forward as the familiar tone of the serpent whispered, _'Two-legged one lies. This one can smell it. Shall this one bit the two-leg?'_

_No! _Harry shifted in his seat, pushing one leg back and felt the snake slip into the leg of his pant. It wrapped around his ankle, lukewarm scales brushing against his skin, and Harry forced himself to relax. A week had passed since the snake came into his care, and, during that time, the chores had been overwhelming. Constant murmurs of biting and convulsing prey was enough to make him lightheaded.

He had yet to tell Tom about their newest roommate, though he had a gut instinct it was going to be a problem. He was certain _something _was different, that this snake wasn't like the others he had encountered, and he could not find any serpent baring a resemblance in the books he searched. He was in the midst of clearing his mind, trying to find a way around the problem the adults were muttering about, when the snake hissed, _'Those eight-legged ones are not welcome in our den. Tell them to move.'_

_They were there first. _Harry tried to reason, but the snake would not have it. _'They crawl across your skin, two-leg, and they whisper in your ear. Their gibbers are not welcome, not when it is from eight-legs.'_

Harry knew making sense of snake-talk wasn't going to happen. Instead, he turned his attention back to the adults as his guardians signed the papers set before them. A feeling of dread settled in his chest, and, somewhere deep down, he knew he would have to face Vernon for this. He wasn't even eight yet, and Dudley, a year older, was soon to have his younger cousin in class _with him. _It was unthinkable.

* * *

_Snow? _Tom's question drifted across the page, and Harry hummed. The snake was looped around his neck, its tongue brushing against the underside of his ear, and the spiders continued to dance across his hands. The Noctis serpent would strike at one, snapping its jaws, and retreated a moment later when the spider retaliated. The small, docile black-widows would move out of range after, and Harry could feel them dancing across exposed calves as he wrote: _Yeah, it's snowing outside. You have seen snow before, right?_

_Of course I have. _Tom responded, followed by: _Pray tell, child, why would you even think to ask if it was otherwise?_

_Because you're in a book? _Harry eyed the journal, a light smile on his face as the words came: _And you, child, are locked in a cupboard under the bloody stairs like some kind of dog which misbehaved. I do not believe you have room to judge me on my knowing of snow._

_No need to get defensive. _Harry proceeded to tell him about Madam Principal's arrival, and how he was skipping a grade: _And, well, then there's the snake. I'm not sure if it's a he or she, but it keeps threatening to bite my relatives._

_Snake? As in a real one? _Harry blinked, eyeing the compacted letters with wonder. The letters were slightly darker, as if he was pressing down on the quill he was writing with, the feather of some kind of bird Tom had explained, with a sense of excitement. What Harry _hoped _was excitement. Setting his pen to the paper, a frown marring his features, he said: _A real snake. I found it in the garden shed about a week ago, but Vernon kept me busy so I forgot to tell you. Its been sleeping with us at night, and it doesn't like the spiders. Or the spiders don't like it. I don't know which._

_I would think the spiders would not like the snake, child. _Tom responded a moment later, writing a bit more curved than normal as he explained: _Snakes are one of the few creatures spiders fear. Old history, that. However, how do you know the snake doesn't like them?_

_It told me. _It was the most obvious thing, Harry mused. How _else _would he know? It's not like the snake dropped post-it notes for him to read, and he highly doubted it could use a pencil. Or a pen. Yet, as his thoughts meandered along, the book began to heat up before Tom, words pressed so close together, asked: _It told you? That shouldn't be possible...child, I need you to do something for me. I need you to tell me what you remember from when you were young._

_I've always lived with the Dur- _The words were cut off as Tom said: _Before the Dursley. What do you remember of your parents?_

Harry frowned, and set his pencil down. Brows furrowed, he focused. He could see his mental tasks flashing in the back of his mind, one after another, and it was a maze of thoughts and notes he had collected over the years. Yet, as it was, he could not recall what came before the dark, cold nights when he was a toddler curled up on the blankets under the stairs. He couldn't recall anything past the first spider, its little body large as it stared at him from within the darkness of the cupboard.

_I don't know anything about them. Auntie said they died in a car crash when I was little, and that's why I'm with the Dursleys. _He hesitated, Vernon's words echoing in his mind, before adding: _Uncle Vernon said dad was good for nothing, and that mum was a hor. I don't know what it means, but he laughed after he said it._

_I believe the term is whore, child, and its definition is something I'm not going to share. _Tom responded some long minutes after, his writing curved and neat as he added: _I knew of a family with the surname Potter. It was a very long time ago, before I was caught in the book, though I do not think they are your parents. Perhaps your grandparents, if not theirs. They are like us, child. Magic. Stronger. Better. Faster. I do not know why you are in the custody of a bloody muggle, let alone an abusive one, but mark my words..._

Harry stared at the page, eyes wide. Heart trapped within his throat, pulse beating out the song of war, he reread the sentences. There was a block in his throat, always present, that tightened as his lips parted. Could it be true? Truly? Could the dreams, the fantasies, he entertained for so really be within his grasp, could they be as physical and real as the boy in the book? Could there be someone _else _out in the world, in a magical counterpart of the world he lived in now, that would want him? That would _love him?_

_I, like you, child, grew up fast. I was smarter than the other children, stronger, and could make things happen that should have been impossible. _Tom continued, and Harry pulled the book close to his face to keep the words in sight: _I was different. At first, the older children bullied me because I wasn't like them, but soon...soon I taught them to fear me. I was forced to learn how to hurt others before they could lay a hand on me, and, when I was young, I had a friend. A snake, found in similar conditions as to how you found yours._

Harry's heart skipped a beat. _Tom's sharing himself, talking about himself. _The realization made him set his pencil down so he wouldn't interrupt. He wanted to read what Tom had to say, but he so dearly wished he could hear the words. Oblivious to his thoughts, Tom continued: _She was a hatching, to weak to live by herself, so I took her in. I had her for a year, hidden but taken care of. The others found out. I had named her Stardust, after the color of her scales, but one of the older boys told the matron looking over us._

Something bad way going to happen. Harry could feel it, and his heart thundered away in his chest. He didn't want whatever was going to happen to happen, knowing whatever it was had been painful for his friend, but he read on despite his own desire to not read: _Thelma, the wretch's name was, was the one who murdered Stardust. She had been my first familiar, my first magical bond. In the end, the muggle, lacking magic, could not stand up to my rage. I was furious, torn, that my only friend had been stolen from my hands with such injustice._

_Magic, child, is in our blood. It sets us apart from those bloody wretches. _Tom's words slowed, and Harry had a feeling his friend was thinking about what had happened, and he rubbed at his face to stop the tears from meeting the pages. He didn't want Tom to stop, not when he was confessing something, because he wasn't strong enough to hear the entire story: _Magic makes our kind superior, child. We are superior,_ **_you _**_are superior. We can do things muggles can never hope to grasp in their short, pathetic lives. This is the worst sin of those outside of magic, for them to do what they have done to you._

Tom's thoughts seemed to jump, and Harry knew there were parts of the story he was omitting. He figured whatever Tom had done was something he did not think he was ready to hear, but Harry knew, one day, Tom would tell him the full story. He stroked the page as Tom warned: _Keep your serpent safe, child. Let none do to you what they did to me. Should you get the time, I would like to see a sketch. Perhaps I can help you find a name._

Harry went to sleep that night smiling.

* * *

Chores were one part of life at the Dursley he could not avoid.

Harry often made sure to keep out of sight of Vernon, and kept his head bowed whenever the man was around. Petunia was often glassy-eyed, as if she was wondering around in a daze or was trying to find something she misplaced. Just this morning, she had walked right into him and knocked him over. It was hard to determine what was going on in the mind's of the adults, and, some of the time, he was just to afraid to figure it out. Dudley was gone for the day, at a friend's house, so Harry was mildly relieved he did not have to face his cousin's taunts and bullying ways. Harry did not favor the thought of being locked out in the cold for another night, especially since it was snowing.

The Noctis was curled up in his cupboard, and, as Harry cleaned, he spotted a spider scuttle across the ceiling. He wasn't sure which family it came from, but he knew it wasn't the widow. They had taken to staying in the dark, under the floors, when he was not in the cupboard due to the snake's fetish with trying to eat them at any given moment. He still didn't know what he could do for a gift for his friend on Christmas. He didn't want to draw a picture, though he did owe him one of the snake now sharing their space. He wanted to give him something he didn't possess, to give him something _only _he could give him.

Harry just didn't know what.

Setting the table, Harry mused over the possibilities he could do. They were few and far between considering how Tom was in a book, and aside from the conversations and pictures, Harry wasn't sure what _else _could go into the book. Maybe he could make him something, and the book would eat it. Maybe. The thought jerked into place, and he recalled how the pages ate lead and ink, both which could become _liquids. _Harry carried the dishes over, and served the food as the thought turned in his mind. He glanced down at his hand when he stepped away from the table, a thoughtful look on his face.

_Magic is in our blood. _The words echoed in his mind, and then he knew what he was going to give Tom. How he was going to manage it, however, was where he was stumped. He finished his chores, and excused himself to his cupboard as the Dursley set up the house for Holiday cheer. It was the one thing they _didn't _want him to do. Harry was glad for it. He didn't _like _Holidays. _Magic is in our blood._

It wasn't long before he was under, dreaming, and it wasn't long before he was pulled away by the sound of a bowling ball pounding a path down the stairs. The snake, curled up around his arm, hissed in agitation before commenting, _"'What was that horrendous noise?'"_

_Dudley. _Harry supplied, feeling the cool waters of the serpent's mind wrapped around his. It flicked out its tongue before asking, _"'Is something constricting him?'"_

Harry shook his head, and the snake hissed, _"'Is he about to be consumed?'"_

_No. _Harry fumbled around for a shirt, and gently lifted off the spider sitting on the fabric. He placed it upon the rafters, kept his ears tuned to the world outside, and supplied the curious serpent with a different answer. _It is Christmas. Humans give gifts. He does that on this day, and on his birthday._

The snake seemed satisfied with the explanation, and, after tugging his hoodie on, Harry squinted as he eyed the room for his glasses. He found them by the door, and slipped them on before picking up the journal as the snake murmured, _"'Either way, the two-legs should not make such nose. If it came close, this one would not hesitate to make him convulse.'"_

Harry blinked at the sleepy serpent, and shook his head. He flopped onto his back, and lifted the snake into the air. The vibrant scales, one color in one light and a different one in another, weaved between his fingers before it hissed, _"'This one does not understand why you stay with the loud two-legs. They are not nice. They do not keep you warm when the cold begins to bite.'"_

_You stay because I keep you warm. _Harry told the snake, and it hissed. Its tongue flicked out, tasting his palm, and Harry smiled as it replied, _"'No, this one stays because you are sweet and kind. This one is dangerous, but you do not shy from this one. This one stays because this one likes you.'"_

Harry let it down on his chest, feeling the scales scraped against his skin through his shirt. It was still young, small but impossibly long, and then it spoke, _"'Have you thought of a name, two-legs?'"_

_A name? _Harry stroked the triangular head, a gentle smile on his face as the serpent explained, _"'This one will stay with you. This one will bite those when they think they can hurt you, and this one will see them convulse. This one is in the first stages of bonding, so a name is advised. You cannot simply refer to this one as 'snake' or 'serpent.' This one is better than other snakes. This one requires a name.'"_

A name. Harry tossed the thoughts around in his head, and then thought of Tom's story. His snake was Stardust, and he glanced down at the serpent resting on his chest. _Are you a boy or girl?__  
_

_"'Male,'" _violet eyes stared up at him, cool and steady, as Harry twisted name after name though his thoughts before one settled. _I remember Tom mentioning someone named Salazar, and he could talk to snakes. Would you like to be named after him?_

_"'Named after the King,__'" _There was a sense of awe coming from the long, flowing serpent before he answered in a gentle hiss, _"'This one would be honored to carry the King's name. This one shall be called Salazar.'"_

Salazar, Harry mused, was a name that fitted the small snake. A silver belly, emerald green coloring the edge, and a multitude of other colors interlaced across the back. It was camouflage, in a way, as they shifted to match their surroundings.

He was not expecting for the cupboard door open, or for his aunt to let out a shrill, glass-shattering scream.

Behind her was his uncle, face unnaturally pale. There was a sense of horror lingering in him as he roared, "Snake! _Snake!"_

Harry bolted upright, and the newly named Salazar slithered under the covers to vanish into the shadows as his aunt continued to scream. Vernon caught him by the hair, hauling him out as he roared, _"God's wrath_, boy, why did you bring that _beast_ in the _house!?"_

"Snake? What snake!?" Dudley's excited cry carried over, and Harry, tossed aside, hit the way with a muted cry of pain. He slid down, eyes wide, as his uncle tore the covers out and Petunia, a knife in hand, hovered behind her husband. "Where'd it go, Vernon? _Where'd it go?!"_

Things happened very fast.

One moment Vernon was standing in the doorway, and the next he was reeling back with a terrified scream. Attached to his face was a spider, easily the side of a dinner plate, though it wasn't venomous. It was one of the other spiders, the ones that didn't come out. Petunia shrieked, and Dudley squealed when it leapt from his father's face. Harry caught a sight of colorful scales vanishing under the floorboards, and the spider darted across the floor, under Petunia's body, and vanished around the bend.

Vernon was on the floor, wide-eyed and panting, and an uncomfortable silence fell over them as Harry felt a warm, gentle hand card through his hair. He looked up, but no one was there. As his uncle gathered his bearings, voice quivering, a faint, mocking laugh drifted through the air before the large man rounded on him.

_"BOY!" _Harry was up on his feet, fleeing, before he was grabbed around the middle. _"You, _you little cretin, _are going in there and killing that snake!"_

When tossed inside the cupboard, Harry rolled and hit the far wall. A spider fell, landing on his chest as he slowly sat up, eyes narrowed, but did not move any farther. Vernon's eyes narrowed, and then he smiled a cruel smile. "There was a snake in there, boy. I saw it with my own eyes. Freaky thing, but you are not leaving that cupboard until its _gone. _You'll clean this entire space _when its gone._ I will not have you harboring any monsters while you are under my roof!"

Spiders scurried into cracks and corners, and Harry, sitting on his bed, winced when the door was slammed shut. "You can stay in here for the rest of the way, you ungrateful cretin! I hope it _bites you, _boy. You hear that? _I. Hope. It. Bites. You!"_

Minutes passed, and then hours.

When Salazar dared creep out of hiding, he wound around his wrist as he hissed in worry. At his side, Tom's journal pulsed with a form of power Harry had never seen before. Swallowing, eyes tearful, he wondered how things could have gotten so out of hand. Bringing the snake to his face, rubbing his cheek against cold scales, he felt sleep pulling him under.

He didn't have the will to fight it off.


	8. Magic Night Flight

**Author's Note**: This is the Eighth installment of _'When Darkness Sings._'

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**Rating**: **T**

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Winter swept away, and soon spring cut in. The cool, wet months fell to the warm and humid seasons to make way for Summer in the circle of life.

Harry sat in his cupboard, Salazar looped around his shoulders as he rested for as long as he was able. It was darker than usual, the spiders out and about, and the cupboard was filled with a cool warmth. Salazar reclined, tired and content, with a large bulge in his stomach, a rat or mouse, and Harry idly petted the snake with a light smile on his face. Vernon never found him, though he did find Tom's diary. Petunia reclaimed it in his stead a week later, infuriated at Vernon for taking the book away, and told him that it was the only thing that kept him out of their hair when they had guests. Did he want to turn it around so that he could become a problem? Vernon never touched the book again.

Salazar was larger now, longer than his arm, but still unbearably thin. It made Harry sad. Slowly sketching a picture of the snake into his journal, his coloring pencils resting next to him, he wondered how things were going to go down. His side hurt, and, leg propped up, it hurt to stand. His ankle was an ugly purple, black marked the flesh like mutated fingers, and he dearly hopped it wasn't broken. If he didn't get his chores done on time, Vernon would mark the uncompleted tasks on his flesh with a bruise or cut for each. Swallowing, he picked up a colored pencil and began the slow process of coloring the picture in.

_"'This one will bite them should they open the door,'" _Salazar was murmuring, part of his body looped around his neck, and Harry smiled. The spiders rested in plain sight, one spinning a web around his toes, and Harry eyed the rough copy of it in the picture. It was a large view of the inside of his cupboard, his small candle glowing next to the bed, the spiders eyes glinting red, the colorful snake, and Harry himself. Most of it was in black-and-white, but splashes of color stood out - his own emerald eyes, Salazar's entire self, the red glint of the spiders' eyes. He carefully signed the bottom of picture, and watched as the picture was slowly absorbed into the white pages.

The edges sank first, and Harry watched it as it slowly bled from the page. The journal was quiet for a long while before the words finally appeared: _Noctis Lacrimosa. One of the most deadly snakes in the world, wizard and muggle alike. Perhaps the most deadly. Salazar is, indeed, a fitting name due to the fact Lord Slytherin had one under his care for many years. Most tend to think he only had one serpent for a familiar, but their ignorance is of no concern of mine. Though I do wonder why you have your foot encased in a web._

_I hurt it earlier. I think this is their way of trying to help. _Harry supplied, and the journal heated before Tom replied: _I take it your uncle has not been civil since you refused to give up Salazar. It's odd, referring to any living thing by that name. However, I would like to address something you asked me during the winter. You once asked if you could transfer magic into my home, and, as I'm sure you have assumed, it can be done. Through your blood._

Harry breathed in deeply. He had thought as much. He glanced down at his foot, the silken web of silver covering his foot entirely up to the calf, and turned his gaze back to the book to answer: _But how can I give you my blood?_

_A paper cut will suffice. A few droplets will work, but if we want to give me more power, a way to reach outwards, then I'm going to need more than that. _Harry nodded to himself. He understood that. At least, he _hoped _he did. Sometimes Tom was hard to understand, and he liked to use big words that Harry did not understand even on his good days. Today was a bad day, Harry reflected, and he stroked the pages. Tom's next sentence came fluidly: _However, it is unwise to give me something like that in your current location. I do think someone is keeping an eye on you if that block in your mind is anything to go off of. I have my suspicions but I cannot be sure without proof._

Harry wasn't sure what to do. He told Tom as much, and the book answered with a simple reply: _You, my child, are going to run away._

For the longest time, Harry stared at the book.

* * *

Tom was a genius. It took some time, but Harry came to understand that as he pulled the weeds out of the garden.

His ankle was still bothering him, but the wraps he wore around it kept it steady. He was sure it was broke, the swelling still as gross as it was three days before, and Harry thought over what Tom had talked about. There were so many things in the world he wanted to see because of what his friend told him, and he hoped that, when he found a way to pull Tom from his journal, that the older boy would take him to see them in person.

_Maybe he can adopt me. Then I'd never be sad or lonely ever again. _Salazar brushed against his arm, his thin body resting just below his elbow. The steady hiss came to him a moment later, _"'This one shall make you a hatchling. Then this one will care for you and make you warm and kill the two-legged ones which hurt the hatchling. This one will constrict them till they can be constricted no more.'"_

Harry forced himself to keep from moving, though a smile did pull at his lips. _Thanks, Salazar._

The snake flicked its tongue out, and licked the inside of his arm. Harry was content despite the pain, and, when he came in for the evening, he went about making dinner. Petunia was peeling potatoes at the table, looking anywhere but at him with that glazed look in her eyes, and Harry set the tables when everything was finished. He retreated to his cupboard, and listened as Vernon came home and how the family laughed and talked and joked as if there was not a boy curled up on threadbare sheets under the stairs.

Harry carefully kept himself silent until late, and then he lit his candle. Pulling out his journal, he quietly wrote to Tom. It was the elder who breached a new subject, with a curt warning not to interrupt, before he began: _There has been something I have been meaning to speak to you about. We have discussed magic on numerous occasions, but, as of yet, we have not dirtied our hands with it. I am going to teach you a spell.__  
_

Harry eyed the book, a sense of unease creeping into him. The Dursley didn't _like _magic. If he did it, he would get in trouble. If they found out, he would be punished, and then he would never be allowed to write Tom again because they would send him away. Harry swallowed, shaking, as Tom quickly spelled out to him: _Harry, my child, calm yourself. I can feel you from in here. Remember what I said about running away?_

_Yes._

_This is part of it, Harry. You have to be able to get out, and to make everything seem normal until they discover you left. _Tom explained, and Harry nodded. He ran his fingers down Salazar's head, eyeing the words as they continued to creep across the page: _However, to get away, you will need to leave. During the weekend would be best, but first we need to have you learn how to escape. Can you do this for me?_

_Yes. But what will happen if the Dursley find out?_

There wasn't a imminent response, but then Tom slowly wrote: _Then they will reap the day they were born._

Harry sat the journal down, flushed, at the fierce response. He wondered how Tom was able to be so sure of himself. Running his hand down his most prized treasure, his true comfort, Harry smiled. He lightly traced the letters, knowing his friend was telling the truth. Yet Harry wasn't sure how Tom could do anything. He couldn't leave the journal. He couldn't interact with the world outside of his prison.

Or could he?

There were instances Harry could recall, small ones which had no explanation. Lights going out, an icy chill sweep past him, the feel of a cool hand on his forehead at night. Then there were the shadows. They appeared at random moments. He recalled, just the other day, how one had lingered like a black omen in the corner of the kitchen while he cooked breakfast. His uncle had sat at the table, pale and sweaty, all morning until Harry was told to go and mow the lawn. Then there were the times when he felt like someone was petting his hair.

Could that all be Tom? Could his friend be extending his influence, despite how much of it is limited, into the world outside of his gilded, papery cage? Staring at the book, tracing its cover and the words within, Harry frowned. Now that he thought about it, there was the entire heat-up-cool-down thing Tom did, something which expressed his emotions, and how he always seemed to know when Harry was holding his diary.

_You'll protect me, right? _Harry asked, after a long silence, and the journal responded without hesitation: _Always. Now, my child, are you ready for your first introduction to our birthright?_

Harry swallowed, but wrote a shaky: _Yes._

_The spell you want is c__olloportus and alohomora._ Tom began, his writing clear and he continued: _However, due to the fact you do not speak, performing a spell the way others of our kind is not available to you. What I will teach you is something many students have trouble doing as it requires a different approach. Most students have both a wand, which acts as a focus, and their voice, which is how they channel the spell. We have neither._

Harry stared at the book, and eyed it with unease. Tom finally said: _Magic can only be accomplished by the will to make something happen. We are going to focus on unlocking the door, so that you can get out. To unlock a door, we use the spell alohomora. However, we want to release the bolt keeping the door shut. The term for that is solvo._

_How am I going to cast a spell if I cannot speak it? _Harry asked, eyes wide, as this news turned around in his mind. Tom was quick to step in: _There is wandless, silent magic as well. It is hard to cast, but I am certain you will manage. So we are going to try a hands-on approach. I want you to place your hand on the door, and visualize the lock coming undone._

Harry set the journal aside, and did as he was told. He placed his hand upon the worn, warm wood and tried to picture a lock coming undone. He sat there for a long moment, feeling within himself for any change, but nothing emerged. The house was still silent, not a noise to be heard, and Harry glared at the door. He cocked his head to the side, and tried again. Nothing happened.

_It's not working. _Harry wrote, and Tom's response was a steady one: _I would be astounded if it did. Did you feel anything different?_

_No. But I don't want to wake up the Dursleys. They'll be angry if I wake them up. _Harry told Tom, his gaze sliding to the door. Tom, as expected, was already writing down a response: _You won't wake them up. Now, Harry, I have a question. Do you know what it means to concentrate on something?_

Harry wasn't sure what 'concentrate' meant, but it sounded important. Tom, after not receiving an answer, shot onward: _To concentrate is to give something your undivided attention. You think of nothing else. It means that you want your goal with your whole body, mind, spirit, and, by association, magic. This power which resides in our blood responds to our desires, to our will to make something happen. Think of how it will feel, my child, to have the power rushing through your blood as you command something to **listen **to you. The satisfaction of accomplish._

_Think of the bolt holding it shut, how it opens, and the feel of it. Picture it opening in your mind, taste it with your senses. Now, put your hand on the door and command the lock to open._

Harry swallowed. He looked at the journal, and then he looked at the still-locked door. He thought of what would happen if he _did _open it, and how his uncle would be to wake up to an unlocked door. His aunt would be furious. Harry could try and tell them it was loose, but he knew Petunia would see through it. He could say he needed to use the loo, but that, alas, would be proven faulty. If he unlocked the door, Harry realized, he would get in trouble. Swallowing, he eyed the journal, and wrote, his hand shaking: _No._

Tom's diary quivered under his hand, the pages heating up as the word's came: _Pardon?_

_No. _Harry repeated, his heart pounding away in his chest. He carefully said: _I won't do it._

_Why not? _Tom asked him, the letters as neat as always: _What is there to loose? If you stay in there, there is no way to know how long you will last. Your uncle may decide to just kill you, Harry. Do you want to die?_

When Harry did not respond, Tom wrote, his words dark and slanted: _You have **nothing**_ _to loose, child. You have everything to gain from this. You must learn now, before it is to late, if you wish to survive. Violence, abuse, are terrible things, but they exist in your life because you will not take command. Now **unlock the door.**_

Harry dropped the journal, heart pounding as the temperature dropped. His breath turned to white clouds before him, wafting through the air, and goosebumps rose along his arms and legs. Tom was angry. Harry could feel it in the air, and he _felt _a cold hand grasp the back of his neck. A dark shadow fell over the top of him, and he heard Salazar hiss in alarm and watched the spiders scurry away.

_Unlock the door, Harry. _The voice was a whisper, and Harry slammed his hand against the wood. Fear, it shot through his system as he tried to picture the image Tom wanted in his mind. When the lock didn't open, he swallowed, and felt tears pricking at his eyes. The grip on the back of his neck tightened, but the shadow said nothing more as Harry _willed _the door to open. It was then that he felt it, this foreign power in his body, rise up with alarming force and slam into the wood. The door swung open, banging against the wall. He didn't see Salazar move, but he felt the sharp fangs of the serpent sank into his ankle. Harry hissed as he pitched forward, onto the floor in the hallway, and saw the lights on the second floor switch on. _Move. Grab the journal._

Harry listened, grasping the journal in his hand, and pushing himself onto his feet. He fled through the kitchen, and was out the backdoor as his uncle's outraged scream cut through the night. Holding the journal to his chest, tears streaming down his cheeks, a poisonous snake wrapped around his arm, Harry ran into the darkness. He did not look back.


	9. Bread and Goblins

**Author's Note**: This is the ninth installment of _'When Darkness Sings._'

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Hunger set in first, and then rain.

Harry's hair clung to his skin, his stomach growling, as he curled up under a bridge somewhere in London. He could hear the sounds of traffic despite the downpour, and the sound of the river rushing by. He didn't know where he was. He could barely read the signs, his glasses left in his cupboard with the spiders, and he mourned their loss. He huddled, curled into a tight ball, in hopes of preserving body heat with Tom tucked against his chest. The tips of his fingers were blue, his body quivering. He stroked the book, and curled up tighter when he felt it heat up.

He had forgotten his pencils, his art box tucked away in a safe niche in the woodwork of his cupboard. If he had them, he could talk to Tom. Maybe his friend would be able to tell him what to do. He could tell him where he could get food, maybe even how to make a shelter of some kind, and how to keep Salazar warm in this miserable weather. The snake himself was coiled in a tight ball, trapped with Tom between chest and thighs, and Harry dearly hoped it was enough to keep the small serpent alive.

He dared not return to 4 Privet Drive for fear of what the Dursleys would do to him upon his arrival. Would they beat him? Lock him up? Perhaps they would punish him, and make him rebuild the door since he was the one who broke it into countless shards of fiber. He eyed his burned hands, the skin red and angry from the burners, and he shook his head. He couldn't return, not so soon. Vernon held grudges, and his anger was fresh in the making. It wouldn't ware off, not for some time. Harry knew his uncle would be infuriated that he broke the door.

As he sat under the bridge, the cold air striking him as the rain continued to beat upon London, Harry recalled the forced that had welled up in his body, how it had surged through his veins and directly into the hand pressed against the wooden door. In that small space, trapped between walls of wood, the magic had been unlike anything he had ever felt before. It had been overwhelming.

In his mind's eye, he could see the wood cracking. Blue lines had snaked through the wood, branching out and connecting like a web of silk made from the spiders he adored. Shards of wood had rose, tips pressed against the door, hundreds of thousands of them, before the door had exploded outwards. Part of the door, the half which stayed connected to the hinges, had slammed into the wall of the staircase, and the sound of his relatives stumbling out of bed and their surprised exclamations. Lights had flared to life, and then his uncle was pounding down the steps.

Sitting under a bridge, in the dark depths of London, Harry realized his magic had done more than open the door. It had blown it apart, tore a large chunk off its hinges and shattered it into unrecognizable pieces. Frowning, Harry eyed the water rushing through the channel several feet from where he sat. The door was only supposed to open, not..._that._

It had been three days, Harry knew, since he ran. Three days without food, bare minimum of water, and glaring faces. He kept out of sight during the day, and found small places to hide in during the night so no big person could pull him out. He didn't want to get kidnapped, or killed. He didn't want to end up like the girls who got kidnapped, the ones he saw on the television. He didn't _want_ to be a parent. He didn't _want _to have a baby!

He was hardly old to take care of himself, let alone a baby. He remembered seeing the young girls on the television crying, and sometimes the boys, and the fat faces of their newborn babies. Harry saw one of the girls, her stomach swollen like she ate a beach ball, and shuddered. Whatever did _that _to her, he did not want it _anywhere _near him. He didn't want to eat a ball. Or a balloon.

The thought made him cringe.

When morning came, Harry roused himself. He climbed to his feet, rolled his shoulders, and tucked Tom's diary into the waistband of his pants. Salazar wrapped around his wrist, opting to stay in the warmth of his sleeve until the summer heat dried the land during the day. Creeping out from under the bridge, eyes squinted, he made his way towards the opening shops. There were things he needed to do, and, in order to figure out anything, he needed to be able to converse to Tom.

He needed something to write with.

Harry made his way into the busy streets of London, people already emerging from their homes. He could smell breads cooking in the ovens as he passed the bakeries, and he paused to eye small stores but passed them by when he saw a few men coming out with the kind of drinks he uncle drank in the evening before he his words started slurring.

He shied away from those he didn't know. He shied away from everyone, but stopped when it was busy to look into windows and look through toy-stores. It was odd, being able to look around as much as he wanted. He couldn't comprehend how something like this was happening, but the pains in his gut reminder not to linger. When he finally dared approach someone, it was an elderly woman in the park feeding birds. Her purse, nearly as large as half of him, sat next to her and she had pencils sticking out of it.

He closed in, book pressed to his chest, and stopped next to her. The elderly woman paused what she was doing, and turned to look at him with an odd frown on her face. Shifting foot-to-foot, he looked at his feet, and she finally asked, "Is there something I can do for ye?"

Harry pointed at his throat, and flushed. Nodding, the elderly lady patted the seat next to her as she said, "Mute, are ye?

_Ye? _Harry turned her odd dialogue over in his head as he nodded, and gestured to his book before gesturing to his mouth again. The old woman smiled, a gray hair falling from the cloth holding it to her head, and turned to her purse. She pulled out two things instead of one: a pencil, and a loaf of bread. The second she snapped in half, and she handed it to him as she said, "You're thin as a twig, child. If I can afford the feed the birds, then, certainly, I can feed you. For now, eat, and then we will talk."

Harry nodded happily, idly wondering how he was going to be able to converse before peeking up. He licked the breadcrumbs from his fingers, wiped his hands on his pants, and took the pencil before writing: _Tom, don't eat the words after this. Please._

He received no answer, and, slowly, he wrote: _Why are you feeding the birds?_

He showed the old lady the book, and she smiled as she read it. She turned her gray, gray eyes on him as she said, "I feed them because few others will, and it brings me happiness. What of you, child, why are _you_ out here?"

Harry swallowed, but pressed his pencil to the page: _Playing. The kids from school said to come here so we could play a game.__  
_

A gentle look came over the woman's face, and she gently said, "It is good to see children playing. So full of life."

For several hours, Harry sat on the bench talking to the elderly woman about odds-and-ends. It was near noon when a young man came up, and paused when he spied Harry sitting next to her. The lady clamped a hand on his shoulder, her voice gentle as she said, "I think, child, it is time you go home. I do not think your friends are coming."

Harry looked at his lap as the man murmured, "Mother, who is this?"

"A mute child who has been waiting for his friends to come and play with him." The elderly retorted, as if it was obvious, before she said, "Would you like to come with us? That way, I could explain to your parents about you being gone for so long."

_Thank you, but I would like to wait a little longer. _Harry hesitated, and then, almost as if he was uncertain, asked: _Is it alright if I keep the pencil? Just in case I need to ask somebody a question?_

"You need not ask, child." The elderly woman stroked his hair before handing him two extra pencils, voice light as she said, "Just in case you need them. Do tell your friends that it isn't nice to break a promise."

Nodding, Harry watched her hobble away with her son's arm around her. When they vanished, he turned his attention to the book to see: _If that was not a dull conversation, than I do not know what is._

Harry blinked, and then smiled as he replied: _At least I got us some pencils._

The book was warm in his hands, and then Tom's familiar, elegant script replied: _You will need more than luck, my child. You need food and money. You need a place to rest, safe from the danger of the streets._

There was a pause to the writing before Tom added: _I should have realized you were not alone when you began the spell. Whatever that aunt of yours brought into that house, it had not left when the Ministry came in. For my err, I am most sorry, my child. For now, however, we must think of what we are going to do._

Harry feared he would tell him to return to the Dursley, but Tom's script came quick, sharp, and dark: _You will **never **return to that dreadful house, not as long as I have a say in it. Not as long as I am able to function Ministry be damned. Those muggles will die a painful death before you are forced under that roof, not when they could hurt you. No child deserves what you have been through._

It warmed Harry to hear Tom say that, and, a light smile on his face, he asked: _So what do you want me to do now?_

* * *

The initial plan would have been learning a bit of magic before leaving, but, certain events unnamed, had changed that. Harry wasn't sure how he was going to do whatever Tom wanted him to do, but, all things considered, he thought he could manage what the man was asking him. He went to sleep in a burrow in a tree in the park, journal pressed tight to his chest, and waited deep into the day the next two days, stealing food here-and-there, for the old woman to return to feed the birds.

She arrived during the weekend, and, shy and awkward, Harry approached her. She looked up, surprise on her face, and Harry smiled shyly as he sat down next to her. She handed him some breadcrumbs, and Harry tossed them out onto the street for the birds to eat before taking the loaf of bread from her. She was quiet for a while before she said, "I had a feeling I would see you here."

Harry had already told Tom she was in the park before going to see her, and so his friend knew he would be talking to the old woman for a time. In his journal, he wrote: _Really?_

"Oh, that I did." She tossed some more bread out, and continued, "I get feelings like these, child. It comes with the age, and having lived so long."

Her son arrived a few hours later, and, as they began to leave, he caught the end of her coat. She turned, and he held up his book: _Could you help me?_

The woman traded a look with her son before she said, "Where do you need to go?"

_Charring Cross Road. _Harry answered, and, within ten minutes, he found himself in the back of her car with her two grandchildren, both a little under five. He smiled as he looked over them, and silently laughed when one tugged on his hair. _I need to get that cut. Definitely need to get it cut._

It wasn't long before they stopped, and Harry slid out of the car and waved as they drove away. He waited till they were out of sight, and turned to eye the street, and, across from it, the broken down shop Tom said he was bound to see. He could also sense the magic brewing around it, and, as he stood there, a chill curled around him. Shivering, Harry darted across the street, and slipped into the door which opened up into a large, dark parlor that expanded to the parlor beyond. A pub.

Harry kept Tom hidden, and slowly made his way to the counter. He tapped the counter, and a large man peered over the top of it to look at him. He flushed, a rosy hue to his cheeks, before signaling to his throat. It was a gesture he was starting to get annoyed with, but the man grinned. "What can ol' Tom do for you?"

Harry nearly chocked. _Tom? _There were _two _Toms?

"And I know a bit o' sign-language," Tom the Barman continued, a gleam to his gaze as he added, "Heck, beats writtin' with a bunch o' paper."

_'I need to go to Diagon Alley.' _Harry told him, relieved, and the man nodded as he stepped around the corner, "First time going threw?"

Harry nodded, a light blush spreading across his cheeks before he said, _'My friend's birthday is tomorrow, and I wanted to get him a gift. I wanted to find something special.'_

Harry followed him out back, into a cold alley, and stared at the brick wall. Tom turned to look at him, voice even as he said, "I'll show you how to do this, so pay attention."

Harry's gaze followed the path the man's wand travel on the bricks, and, as the barman stepped aside, Harry watched as the wall fell upon itself to create an archway which opened into a medieval world one would see from a fantasy story. Harry made sure to keep his features calm, as _his _Tom had told him to do, and stepped into the busy street. He forced himself not to look at the shops, though he did pause to look over a group of cauldrons sitting on display with a smile on his face.

Everyone was running about, much to busy to stop a moment to pay a lone child any attention, though Harry did feel people watching him. Moving on, he made his way through the bustling crowd towards the large building he could see in the distance. Gringotts Wizarding Bank, Tom had called it. Swallowing, he could only wonder if a _child _could look over their accounts.

_Remember, Harry, that the key to blending in is not to stick out. _Tom had warned him hours ago. _If you stand there and stare at everything, they'll know you're new. They'll know, and they'll pay attention. Whatever happens, they cannot know that your muggle-raised. There are many who would try and take advantage of that._

Harry managed to push his way through the crowd, the cobbled street under his feet solid and comforting. He stopped before the bank, squinting, and smiled. He darted up the steps, light and sure on his feet, and waited for the goblins, Tom had explained they would be there, to open the door for him. He slipped inside, the marble floors gleaming and gilded pillars rising up on all sides of him to support an impossibly large roof.

Despite everything being blurry, he could see men and woman bustling about in their robes. He could see goblins perched in seats above the ground, line after line of people and things he could not name, and swallowed his excitement. He had to _blend. Blend. Blend. _He couldn't do that if he stood gawking in surprise, so he took the grandeur and beauty in as he walked to join the end of a line on his far left. Standing among large people, he hoped no one would pay much attention to him. To his relief, none did, and it was not long before he was standing in front of the counter with a goblin, piercings adorning the flesh of its face, glaring down at him.

_The goblins you'll interact with first, my child, are the Tellers. _Tom's words echoed in the back of his mind, the writing still clear as day. _Request a private meeting, and do not give them your name. When you leave the Leaky Cauldron, make sure to get some paper from the barkeep._

Harry fished through his pocket, and pulled out the paper. He stood on tiptoe, and handed it to the goblin, knowing intimately what is on the paper: _I was told to request a private meeting by my guardian, and not to give my name until we are alone. It would be in Merlin's favor, by name of Gold, should you do this._

Harry remembered writing it after Tom had told him what to put. He didn't think it would make much difference, but, after reading it, the goblin swung around in his seat and grabbed a few items before calling out to another goblin. Harry was led away from the crowd, and they paused in in a doorway as this goblin said, "Name?"

Harry blinked, and then gestured to his throat. A small notepad was handed to him, and Harry carefully wrote his name on it. The goblin eyed it, than looked at him, before saying, "Can you verify that?"

Harry blinked, and then the goblin darted forward. He felt a sharp pain in his arm, and then the goblin was moving away, a tear of blood on his claw, and licked it clean. The creature was silent before saying, "It tastes as it should. Move your hair from your face."

Harry did as ordered, his scar glaring out at the goblin, and the creature hissed slightly before grinning a mouthful of sharp teeth. "Very good, Mr. Potter. Come into the back, and we shall converse."

As Harry stepped through the door, he wasn't sure if he should be wary or not.

Something told him he should.

* * *

Life in 4 Privet Drive was unnatural.

Dudley sat in the front-room, a soda in hand. His favorite show was on, but he couldn't bring himself to watch it. His home was unnaturally quiet, the light drifting across the ground like a darkness had lifted. Like something _evil _had passed through, and left with a sigh. His gaze slowly turned to the cupboard his cousin had resided in for nearly seven years, alone and silent. Had his cousin really left? Had he not taken care of the Dursleys? Cooked for them? Cleaned for them? Frowning, eyes narrowed, he wondered what _really _happened.

_"We take _care _of him. Isn't _that _the deal?!" Vernon roared, and the man smiled pleasantly as he folded his arms in colorful sleeves. _Dudley looked into the kitchen where his mum was making lunch, face drawn and eyes dark. She felt it, the change in the house, just as he did. He could almost feel it in the air, a whisper of something he couldn't understand, and smelt it like rain about to descend. _We take care of him, _his dad had roared. _We take care of him._

Dudley's mind returned to the night a week ago, the feel of something dark forcing him from his sleep. It had been directly beneath his room, breathing a coldness into the house, and he shuddered to remember it. His hair had stood on end, and his heart had pounded in his chest. He had sat in his room for a long while, breathing uneven, before the cupboard door exploded. Harry had fled, despite a broken ankle, and Dudley had _seen _it. A dark cloud of something. It had followed his small cousin out of the house, and then the oppressive heaviness in his home vanished.

His mum became withdrawn, but Vernon, his dad, had mellowed out. He wasn't as violent. He wasn't as aggressive.

Dudley knew, without a doubt, that his cousin was in danger.

He just didn't know what to do.


	10. Magic Money

**Author's Note**: This is the tenth installment of _'When Darkness Sings._'

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Money was something Hadrian James Potter knew next to nothing about.

Petunia, while she often let him accompany her to the store, never trusted him with the money of the Dursley household. Vernon wasn't worth mentioning, though Harry knew he often gave Dudley money. Lots of it, if the toys the larger boy had in his room was anything to go off of. He had been in a bank before, back in his own world, but _this _bank was nothing like it. Normal banks didn't have little, oddly looking creatures running in it. They also had cards with money on them, kindly women who smiled at him, and lollipops he could suck on while he waited for the Dursleys to finish doing whatever someone did at bank. Gringotts was everything _opposite_ of what he had learned about banks.

Gringotts was everything Harry had thought it would _not _be.

It was five times larger than the Dursleys home. It was made of stone and had gold and silver and bronze wherever he looked: it was gilded into pillars of marble, it cut fancy designs across the floor, and spiraled around thick beams high up in the air which, Harry thought, were used to keep the ceiling from falling on the people below. And it was run by _goblins. _Not humans. _Goblins!_

As Harry followed one of the odd, small creatures into the back of the bank, pencil in hand, he tried his best not to look amazed by his surroundings. If the smirk on the goblin's face, or at least what Harry _thought _was a smirk, he had failed in appearing like he had been here before. Or maybe goblins just had a really good memory, and they know when someone had been in their bank before. It was slightly disconnecting.

He was led into a room in the back, and then he was left by himself. Wandering around the room, gently touching the gold and silver metals mixed into the marble on the walls, he tried to figure out what he was to do. He knew he was on his own at the moment, Tom tucked into his pocket, and he absently rubbed Salazar through his sleeve. The snake shifted, and slide up his arm so he could rest his head directly beneath his ear. The thin tongue flicked out, and Harry craned his head away from the ticklish flick of his friend's tongue.

When the door opened, and another goblin entered the room, it paused to look at him with a rather odd look on its face. As he didn't know goblin expressions, he wasn't sure if the look was a good one or a bad one. Harry shifted on his feet, the feeling of unease he had felt before entering the bank returning twofold. The goblin eyes narrowed as it said with a sneer on its haggard face, "I am Ragok, manager of Old and Nobel House accounts and their assets. Everything which occurs within this room and beyond is confidential between the parties present."

Blinking, Harry's hand dropped to the journal pressed firmly into his hip. It was warm, the cover steadily heating up until it was a sharp burn against his hip. In the dim lighting of the room, Harry could _feel _the energy rising to curl around him. The goblin, Ragok, seemed to frown as it sat at one end of the table in the center of the room, voice tight as it said, "The presence of your familiar, alongside the spirit, shall remain safe in these walls."

Salazar slid down his arm onto the table, rising partly out of his coils, as Harry sat in his chair. He carefully pulled out Tom's diary, and set his pencil next to it as Ragok eyed the colorful serpent with a curious gleam in his eyes. It was silent for a moment before the goblin spoke, "You are an unusual one, Mr. Potter. It is not everyday a wizard waltzes into Gringotts with a highly venous, illegal serpent on their person. Such a rare beauty, this Noctis. As for your_ companion _there,"

Companion? Harry swirled around in his seat, eyes searching, as the goblin snorted. "Goblins see what humans cannot."

Ragok looked contemplative for a moment, staring at the space directly behind him, before he said, "There are ways for your friend to be heard, should that be his desire, but they are few and far between."

Again the goblin eyed the space behind his shoulder, eyes narrowing before he murmured, "Than I shall see to it. One moment, Mr. Potter."

Ragok left the room, robes whirling around him and metals clinking together. Harry opened his journal, hoping Tom would have some kind of explanation for what had just happened. He was relieved to see words awaiting him: _Goblins possess a type of magic humans do not. The craft which runs though their history is unlike anything any mage could copy, and much of it is shrouded in secrecy. For obvious reason._

It was not long before the goblin returned. He did not appear to have anything in his possession, but, when he returned to the table, he pulled out a large disk with a stone in the center. He placed that in the middle of the table, and gestured at the journal as he said, "You will not need your journal out for this to work, Mr. Potter. Put that thing away lest someone walk in and see it."

Harry stowed the journal away, a flush coloring his cheeks and neck red as Ragok continued, "I will open a portal to allow for your companion to have access to the room we currently are in. It is not all that uncommon to deal business with the departed."

Harry watched, eyes wide, as the device began to glow and lift into the air. The disks surrounding the stone whirled around, like the rings of a planet circling the world they revolve around, and his hair stood on end when the temperature dropped. A sense of _something _pulsed, pushing against his senses, and if it was not for the feeling he should remain quiet, and had it been within his power, he would have squeaked. Yet, as he sat there, he was on the verge of getting up and _running away. _The air was cold, a breeze whipping his hair around his face, and he felt as if someone stood behind him. He nearly came out of his seat when a low voice hissed, "I am surprised to know you can see me, Ragok. Most surprised indeed."

The goblin stilled, voice garbled as it snarled, "Surprised? Unlikely."

As Harry went to turn in his seat, a slightly transparent hand clamped down on his shoulder. Harry craned his head back, eyes widening when violet-red eyes peered down to clash with his green. Ragok sputtered for a moment, pulled out several additional folders, and asked, "If we had known you would be here, Mr. Riddle, we would have added additional wards to the room. What can Gringotts do for you?"

Harry could feel Ragok staring at him even as the hand on his shoulder swept to the back of his neck, fingers gently needing the tense flesh there. Head lulling forward, Harry listened as his friend said, "We are here in regards to the Potter Vaults, and, in addition, to any assets the child has access to. We will also need a list of all properties in his possession, the name and whereabouts of his magical guardian, and to make a withdrawal from his funds. Also, I would like to know how much the Dursleys are getting paid to watch after him."

"I am afraid that such information- " Tom cut in mercilessly, the temperature plummeting as he hissed, "I might not have a wand, but I have _other _skills at my disposal that I will not hesitate to use."

The hand needing the back of his neck ghosted around to the front, and a finger gently pulled his chin up so it rested against Tom's chest. His friend's voice lowered when he said, "I have made my demands, Ragok, and, if you know what is best for Gringotts, and yourself, you will see to it."

"Of course, Mr. Riddle." The small goblin hopped off his chair, and practically fled from the room. When the door shut, Harry turned under Tom's hand to gaze up into red eyes with a wide, curious eyes. Tom brushed his bangs out of his face, and gently traced the scar marring his features. The touch was cold, but, as the pale fingers continued to trace his features, Harry found himself wondering how his friend was here. A black-brown eyebrow rose into a wavy hairline moments before Tom said, "It is unfortunate. I cannot retain this form when we leave. A pleasure it would be, child, if the Dursleys realized I resided in their _home._"

Before Harry could question him, the door opened and Ragok came back in with an armful of folders. Tom twisted him around in his seat as the goblin began, "I gathered the collective on the Potter Vaults. There are numerous vaults under the Potter insignia, some which belong to other Old and Nobel Houses. One of these vaults is from the Black family. There is also one under Lupin."

"Do get to the point." Tom folded his arms over his shoulders, one hand idly pressing into his skin in soothing circles, as Ragok explained, "The main vaults under the Potter name is the Fortune Vault, the Family Vault, and Mr. Potter's trust-fund. There are also four additional vaults set up by Raymon Potter for the collection of artifacts, heirlooms, and unmentionables. These vaults were constructed so that the Ministry could not gain access to anything within them regardless of any laws which might pass."

Ragok set several papers before him, and Harry picked them up with care. He scanned the contents, stopping on larger words, and finally looked up when the sour goblin added, "However, due to _wizarding _law, the only vault he has access to at this moment is his trust-fund. He will have access to the others the day he turns fifteen, and then he will have full control at eighteen."

"His magical guardian?" Tom asked as his arms slipped off his shoulders, and Harry watched as his friend slowly stalked around the table. Ragok looked at Tom, his expression dark as he answered, "You will not like this, Mr. Riddle."

"Get on with it."

"Hadrian James Potter is under the care and custody of one Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore," Ragok cleared his throat, a scowl sweeping across his face as he carried on, "Who is part of the Order of Merlin, a First Class Grand Sorcerer and Chief Warlock, and is the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederacy of Wizards."

Tom hummed low under his throat before asking, "Can this guardianship be transferred?"

Harry stared, eyes wide, at the wizard leaning against the table. _Transferred?_

"It can, but the process of doing so is very complicated considering of all the safeguards Dumbledore has taken to ensure he keeps his status as Mr. Potter's magical guardian."

"Is there a way I can gain access to the vaults," Tom circled behind Ragok's chair, voice light as he added, "without the blubbering old food finding out about it?"

"As you are no more than a fragment of a whole, no." Ragok commented, voice steady as he said, "To gain access to a vault not among your own, Mr. Potter will need to add your blood, and magic, to a collection of his in the security system. This has been done once, when he was young, by Dumbledore. However, I can tell you that Albus Dumbledore has been withdrawing a large sum of money every month from the trust-fund, but what it is used for is unknown."

Harry watched as Tom, _Tom, _circled the table to stand behind him. The grip on his shoulder returned, unyielding, as he demanded, "Take us to his trust-fund. I would also like to check in with _my _vault on the way."

"Oh course," Ragok swept off to the side, voice tight as he added, "however, there is still the issue of your _being_. Or lack of it, as it is."

"Do not play me as a fool, Ragok." Tom's voice was a hiss, soundly eerily like Salazar when the serpent was displeased, and his skin crawled. "We both known there are _other _ways for me to leave this room as I am now."

"Naturally," Ragok's voice was tight, as if the words were forced between teeth, and he plucked the disk off the table. Harry watched, unbelieving, as the size of it changed and then was handed to _him. _Blinking at it, the goblin explained, "Keep this on you. It will allow Mr. Riddle to stay with us. Shall we proceed?"

* * *

When the goblins took him down the dark and winding tunnels, deep into the cool, dank catacombs buried deep beneath Gringotts, Harry let out a chocked, rough scream. Only a little, when he was almost certain that he'd be thrown from the cart when they cut a sharp turn on the track. It left his throat hurting, a sharp pain flaming within him, and he kept his mouth closed for the remainder of the ride. He clutched the magical disk in his hand, the edges cutting into his flesh, but he was determined to keep Tom at his side.

The wizard was _here. _Harry burrowed into the older man's side, Salazar wrapped around his neck, and could not bring himself to care about the arm draped over his shoulder. The silent, red-eyed wizard played with his hair for a majority of the time, running his fingers through the length, and the youth wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and fall asleep. He could feel the goblin in front of them eye him for a moment, but it made no comment. If they had any thoughts about the odd arrangement, they kept it to themselves.

Many sharp turns and heart-stopping drops later, and what Harry though was a dragon the train-like compartment braked. Harry jerked forward, eyes wide, and watched as the goblin climbed out of the cart. Tom climbed out after, and Harry took the hand offered. Ground moving under his feet, the world swaying, Harry pressed himself into his friend's side as he waited for the world to stop moving around him. He let the older wizard steer him towards a large door-like slab of stone, strange markings making an outline so that it could be seen.

Ragok, the goblin sneering, unlocked the vault and gestured them inside. Harry stepped through the threshold, Tom directly behind him, and he stopped. Gold, so much _gold, _stared back at him. There were smaller coins of silver and bronze, all shinning innocently at him, and, picking one up, he was startled to see how _large _they were to the money and bills he was accustomed to. Turning it over, eyeing the odd designs on it, he turned to see the older wizard staring at the room with narrowed eyes. The journal, pressed against his hip, was emitting a sharp, painful heat telling the boy Tom was angry.

Was this Dumbledore taking _that _much money that it meant a great deal. As this thought crossed his mind, Tom's eyes found his as he said, "What you are holding is a Sickle. The gold ones are Galleons and the bronze are Knuts. Wizarding currency."

_'Is this other wizard taking to much?' _Harry signed, and Tom, seeing it, frowned before answering, "I am displeased the barmy bastard would take your money, but that is not what caught my attention."

Harry frowned, waiting for Tom to continue. The wizard did a moment later, "I cannot see how your _relatives _treat you as they do, why you are to stay with them, when you have _this _at your disposal. It is unnatural."

Harry blinked. _'Is this a lot?'_

Tom gave him a look that his teachers would give him when they thought he said something odd. Blinking up at the wizard, pressing the gold coin, the Galleon, into Tom's palm, he asked, _'This money...is it mine?'_

"It is yours." Tom confirmed, and Harry eyed the room as Ragok shoveled money into a bag he had with him. Looking back at Tom, the older explained, "We are staying on this side of the Divide for as long as we are able. There is a great deal I need to catch up on, and we need money to get the information I need. And the materials for other, unspecified goals. You, however, are in need of proper clothing. Those _rags _are going in a fire the moment they are off your body."

Ragok came back, and lead them away after handing Harry the bag. They traveled deeper into the bank, into a darkness Harry could not see in, and stopped in uncharted depths before one of four doors with interconnecting platforms. Climbing out, Harry eyed Tom with a curious gleam in his eye as he asked, _'Why is your vault so far away from the others?'_

"My vault is an old one," Tom murmured as he stepped up to the door, tendrils of what Harry thought as magic leaking out of him. The youth watched the door eat those tendrils of power, and how the odd markings began to twist upon each other, in a fashion like two snakes pulling away from the center. The wall sank upon itself, forming a large opening in the wall, and Tom pushed him forward before stepping in behind him. Voice low, Tom murmured, "Follow me, Harry. Touch nothing."

The room was overflowing with objects, many of them having some kind of relation to snakes and some of them felt dark. Harry shied away from the things in the room until Tom placed a hand on his shoulder, "Open the case,"

Harry looked for the case, and was turned to face it. It stood back against the wall, a container with a glass lid sparking with energy. Harry reached in, carefully unlatching the lid, and opening it. He turned to Tom, and the wizard murmured, "Place my journal on the top of it, and then wrap the silk covering the tome is on around both books. Make sure not to touch the one in there."

Harry could feel both Ragok and Tom staring at him as Harry placed the journal on the large, black book's cover. He kept his fingers away from the surface despite the desire to touch the book, but knowing Tom told him _not _to touch it for his own safety. Tom would never hurt him. Ragok then handed a one-strap bag, the one that went over the shoulder and hand a suitcase-like backpack attached to it with a flap over the top to protect the things within, to him. Harry took it without question, and carefully placed the wrapped books, and then his pouch of money, into the bag. Slipping the strap over his shoulder, Harry left Gringotts with more questions and a silent snake. Tom had vanished, but Harry knew he was in reaching distance.

He always was.

* * *

Room: Paid

Location: Not as good as it _could _be

Price: Half-off

It was an ideal location, Harry mused, that which was the Leaky Cauldron. Tom the Barman had given him a discount because he was a child, though he had felt lingering eyes as he moved what little he possessed to his chosen room. Then it was back into the streets, and with a goal at the forefront of his mind. He was looking for clothing. He had to leave Tom behind for this one, with the large book hidden in his bag which was, in turn, hidden under his bed. Before he had departed, Tom had told him _where _to go, but a lingering feeling of unease still circled him.

This world was so _strange._

He wasn't expecting to be halfway across the large square, with dozens of shops around him, when a hand caught him by the shoulder. He was turned around sharply, and he was surprised to find himself staring into the bewildered eyes of one Mr. Figg. Standing in the center of the square, heart still in his chest, he held his teacher's gaze with as much shock as he could see in the man's eyes.

_'Mr. Figg?' _Harry signed with one hand, trembling slightly as the man whispered, _"Merlin_, Harry, you had us all so scared!"

_Merlin? _The word danced in his mind, and, swallowing, Harry signed, _'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.'_

"Upset?" Mr. Figg knelt on the ground, hands resting on his shoulders as he whispered, "Merlin, child. I was terrified when I heard you went missing. You've been gone a _week."_

Harry knew it was five days. It was a school week, by all accounts, but his teacher's tearful face was reliving. Mr. Figg cared. He gently placed one small hand on the one on his shoulder, a small smile crossing his face as he signed, _'I was looking for a clothing shop. Tom said it was around here.'_

"Good man, Tom." Mr. Figg looked at him long and hard before standing, voice light as he said, "I know the perfect store, if you're interested."

Harry nodded eagerly, though inwardly wondering if they were talking about the _same _Tom. The teacher smiles gently, and takes his hand as he said, "It's over this way. Madam Malkin is the woman you want to see. She makes robes for all occasions, which I suppose is where the store got its name."

Madam Malkin's store was, indeed, a sight to see. As they made their way through the crowd, his hand captured in his teacher's, Harry knew it the moment he saw it. The front had robes out on display in a variety of colors: emeralds and cyan blue, silver and golden hues, and, scattered in the mix, were robes of vermilion and amethyst and rosy hues of pink. Leaning into his teacher's side, eyes wide and excitement boiling in his blood, he wondered if this world Tom had taken him into could get any better_._

For, surely, it couldn't get _worse_.


	11. The Chase Begins

**Author's Note**: This is the eleventh installment of _'When Darkness Sings._'

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**Rating**: **T**

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It took a total of twenty-three seconds for Harry to determine he did _not _like Madam Malkin.

The woman stuck him with needles, muttering measurements under her breath, and twirled him around on the stool until he was dizzy. She measured his feet, checked the width of his palms, and twisted his hair into a bun upon his head. Mr. Figg stayed at his side, a gentle smile on his face while the large witch turned him into her plaything, pulling him this way and that like a doll made for her entertainment. Harry didn't like it. Not one bit. From the scowl on the face of the boy next to him, he figured the thought wasn't an uncommon one. A sharp tug on his ear had his chin up, and the measuring tape went around his neck. Mr. Figg's light laughter reached him, and Harry wiggled.

He _really _didn't like this shop. His teacher was smiling, his voice light as he said a moment later, "Keep still, Harry. After this, we'll find something to eat."

"So _that _is your name?" The drawl was smooth, and Harry slide his gaze to the boy next to him as the blond continued, "I was beginning to wonder if you had one with how quiet you have been."

"Harry's mute," Mr. Figg dropped the answer, a gentle smile on his face as he added, "Are your parents well, young Malfoy?"

"They are as expected." The blond, Malfoy, answered easily. "Father is conducting business at the Ministry, and mother is somewhere near. What of you, Figg. I was unaware of any children you had seeing that you are unmarried."

Harry looked between his teacher and this boy. They knew each other? As Harry eyed his teacher, trying to determine _how _they could possibly know each other, and stilled. A telltale headache was blooming in the back of his mind, a gap waiting to be breached, and his brow furrowed. Was Mr. Figg going to take him back to the Dursleys? Eyes snapping up towards his teacher, murmurs of conversations and odd words lurking in the back of his mind, he froze. Was _that _why Mr. Figg was looking for him? To take him back?

"Harry?" A hand clasped his, and he pulled himself free from the tapes as he signed, _'You're not going to take me back, are you? Not to the Dursleys.'_

"What is he saying?" The boy stepped down as well, and the woman, Madam Malkin, pursed her lips as Mr. Figg answered, "Harry, listen to me. Harry!"

Harry pried his shoulders free from Mr. Figg's grasp, the clothing stand next to him shattering as the low, sharp hiss from Salazar wrapped around his mind. He could feel the coils unwinding from his shoulders, the serpent's harsh hisses lurking on the backdrops of his thoughts. _'Bite him, this one will. Bite him, if he comes close. This one will watch over hatchling, this one will.'_

"Harry, calm down." Mr. Figg held his hands up in surrender, eyes sharp, his voice gentle as he said, "You aunt's worried sick about you. Dudley hasn't been in class since you left. Do you want them to worry any more than they have?"

_'And Uncle Vernon?' _Harry signed, and, watching his teacher, he asked, _'Uncle is angry. He's always angry when I do something bad.'_

"Why is he upset?" Malfoy was stepping closer, his eyes dark as he eyed Mr. Figg, and Harry's eyes darted between the two. For all he knew, _this _boy was going to help Mr. Figg send him back to the Dursleys. Tom _said _he was _never _going back! Stepping away, hands bunched up in the folds of his partly finished robe, he signed, _'I'm not going back. He said I didn't have to.'_

"He?" Mr. Figg paused, and Harry could feel his confusion as it wrapped around his energy, as it pressed against his senses. His teacher stilled, pale as he asked, "Who said you don't have to go back?"

_'My friend.' _Harry knew he said to much, but, feeling Salazar brush against his skin, he also knew things could get ugly very fast. _'I don't know what you did, or why you want me to go back there, but he's never lied to me. I don't want to go back, and he says I don't have to. And then the gas leak under the house...that...that was a lie. It makes my head hurt.'_

Mr. Figg was pale, unnaturally so, and his voice was strained as he said, "Harry, child, listen to me. You have to -"

The temperature dropped, the glass cracking, and Harry turned on his heel and bolted into the back of the store. He heard Mr. Figg calling out to him, and then a hand grasped his and pulled into the shadows. He turned, and was surprised to see the steely grey eyes of the boy next to him. A blond eyebrow rose in question as the other boy said, "Father always told me to act on the facts. Whatever was going on between you two, however, was not good. Come on."

Harry stumbled after the boy, and then they were slipping out through a backdoor. Harry hitched up his robes, and he felt Salazar slide down his sleeve towards the hand grasping his wrist. _'How dare this two-leg. No one is allowed to touch the hatchling without permission, no one but the Den Master and this one himself.'_

_No! _He felt Salazar pause, and pressed upon the mind of his friend. _Malfoy, this boy, got me out of the store. He's helping me get away! You can't bite him._

_'Not now, this one cannot.' _Salazar acknowledged, and added, _'One wrong move, and this one shall bite.'_

Harry wasn't sure if he should be relieved or worried about what a wrong move would entail. The blond pulled him through several back alleys, his hand tugging him along, and it was from experience alone that kept Harry from toppling over. Malfoy paused at the end of one alley, his gaze on the bustling square, and Harry eased into the space next to the blond. His gaze swept across the street, and then he tugged on Malfoy's hand.

"What?" The blond eyed him, and Harry pointed at the booths lining the side of the street several feet down from them. Malfoy eyed them for a moment and then turned his attention back to him, voice low as he said, "That might actually work. It would be easy to remain unnoticed there. Mother should be nearby, at the Apothecary for my Godfather. The Apothecary is over there."

Harry followed the pale digit's direction, and spotted the shady looking shop nestled between two shops on the far-side of the square. Tightening his grip on the hand holding his, he pointed out the Leaky Cauldron before grinning. Malfoy looked at it, and then at him as he asked, "You have a room there? Then we should stop by there first and grab whatever you need, and find mother. Mother always knows what to do."

Malfoy led them out of the alley, pulling him along, and they slipped into the bustling crowd. They brushed against witches and wizards of all colors, their robes soft and water-like as it brushed against them. Harry could hear Mr. Figg somewhere in the background, calling his name, and he stepped closer to the boy leading the way. Malfoy looked over his shoulder at him, one pale eyebrow arching into his hairline, and then they were slipping into the pub where Tom the Barman worked.

"A friend, young Harry?" Tom questioned him as he washed out a cup. Harry nodded, and signed, _'Someone's looking for me. If they ask, I checked out this morning.'_

"Bloody hell, kid." Tom set the cup down, and his gaze shifted towards the boy next to him as he said, "When you get whatever you're after, use the employee's door in the hallway. I'll keep your room open in case you come back tonight."

_'Thank you.' _Tom the Barman smiled, and Harry led the way upstairs to his room. He pulled his pack out from under the bed, checked the contents, and then slipped it over his shoulder. He followed Malfoy out of the pub, and into the streets once again. They were halfway across the square, moving from shadowed area to shadowed area, when Harry felt it. A steady drop in temperature, his breath turning to mist, and he caught the blond's hand. Malfoy paused, his skin rippled with goose-flesh, as a low, groaning rumble shook the ground under their feet. "What _is _that?"

Harry couldn't see what Malfoy was staring at, but he could _feel _it. His mind backpedaled to Aunt Marge's visit, the heaviness that had come with her that hazy, misplaced night. It shifted back to the night he ran away, the cold presence which had settled over him without warning when Tom had been teaching him his first round of magic. He recalled the dark, heavy oppressiveness which had followed the darkness. Swallowing, feeling the cold now, he knew that, whatever it was, it was in the square with them.

And it was angry.

* * *

"Where is my son, Figg." Julian gasped in pain, one of his hands wrapped around the wrist of one Lucius Malfoy. He tugged at it, hoping beyond hope that he would not have to resort to a duel to get the man to release him. Lucius, however, stepped closer, pressed closer, his eyes iced over as he snapped, "I will not ask again."

"He vanished with my own child, Lucius." Julian tightened his grip on the wrist holding him off the ground, voice strained as he said, "We will not find them as we are now. Please, set me down. I want to find them _both _just as much as you wish to find young Draco."

Lucius dropped him. Julian landed on his feet, his boots taking most of the impact as he straightened his robes. He eyed the Malfoy Patriarch with open disdain, irritation settling over him as his mind raced. Holding the Patriarch's eyes, he said, "Contact Narcissa, Lucius. As of right now, we have no way to know _where _they could have run off to. Or if they're even together."

Lucius stepped closer, chin up, as he said, "Merlin have your soul, Figg, for, should _anything_ happen to my son, his fate rests on your shoulders."

* * *

Harry had always been quick on his feet.

Dodging between those of magical blood, Malfoy's hand in his, he tried to put everything together. This thing, whatever it was, was not giving up. It had _followed _him, in a way, but he had no experience with creatures such as it. He didn't know how to protect himself against something that could pass through walls as if they were made of air. Under his fingers, he could feel Malfoy's pulse speeding with fear. With _terror._

He dove under a witch's body, darting between her legs, and he heard Malfoy apologize as they sped away. Off to the side, a stone pillar splintered, its stones flying through the air. Cries blanketed the area, and Harry twisted around to dart into a street branching off the main one. Malfoy, his hand still in his, yanked them into a store and dove under a counter as the glass shattered overhead. Burrowed into the other boy's side, arms wound around his waist, he shuddered as a white, vaporous fog swept across the ground.

_"Do not just sit there, hatchling!" _Salazar swept out of his collar, and Malfoy froze as the snake weaved in the air before them. Harry offered his wrist to the venomous serpent, watching as he wound around his wrist, Salazar's voice urgent as he hissed, _"Run, hatchlings! Let not this beast of shadow catch you! This one can only do so much, but this beast is one which this one cannot counter. Run!"_

Harry grabbed Malfoy, and bolted across the room. Behind them, the shadow screeched.

* * *

"You lost our _son!?" _The resounding sound of flesh hitting flesh echoed, and Julian bit his lip as Lucius's head snapped to the side as his irate wife stepped away, her eyes narrowed as she spat, "How could we loose our _child _when he was in a _clothing store, _Lucius!?"

Narcissa Malfoy paced, her bags on the floor next to her feet. White robes billowed around her slim frame, and the blonde woman tapped her wand against her wrist as she closed her eyes. Julian could see her shoulders shaking, her pale skin a deathly hue with fear and nervous anticipation. As he looked between the couple, he voiced, "Perhaps when my own child ran, young Draco went after him. Harry isn't familiar with Diagon, so maybe..."

The thought was to horrid to even consider. Looking out at the square, he paused. It was empty. Behind him, her heard Narcissa whisper, "Maybe what, Julian? What could your son have done?"

"I believe Harry might have been staying at the Leaky Cauldron."

"Merlin, have mercy on you." Narcissa stepped closer, her hair hanging around her like a curtain of silver fire. Her eyes were sharp, intelligent as he had always known them to be, and her voice was barely restrained as she whispered, "If any harm comes to my son, you will have much to answer for."

* * *

Harry had always viewed the day of his eighth birthday to be something special.

It was hours away, and, as darkness settled over them, Harry hoped he would live to see it. Salazar, wound tight around his shoulders, hissed soothing words into his ears as he and Malfoy fled through the darkness. Somewhere in the darkness, they could see the white fog advancing, and the low, groaning cry of the beast. Harry wanted to cry. Looking at Malfoy, the pale boy shaking and looking rather green, he knew crying was out of the question when this boy, a stranger whose only intention was to help him get somewhere safe, was drawn into his own struggles.

Perhaps having a baby would not have been so bad, not when he could compare it to _this. _Staggering, leaning against the wall, he collapsed against Malfoy's side as the boy muttered, "This was _not _part of the plan. Who knew shopping could be so dangerous?"

_You have no idea. _Harry leaned his head against a bony shoulder, his stomach grumbling.

"So you really cannot speak, can you?" Harry shook his head in answer, and pointed at his throat. The boy was frowning, but he nodded a moment later as he said, "I suppose you live in the muggle world, then. We have doctors over here who could fix that. Father says magic can do anything."

Harry smiled. He eyed the fog, its movements slow. They would have to run again. It was getting close. As he stood, swaying, he offered his hand to Malfoy. The boy stared at it for a moment before taking it, and Harry hauled him to his feet. Clutching his pack to his chest, feeling a subtle heat coming from within, he wondered if Tom would know what to do. But could he talk to Tom with Malfoy next to him? Wasn't the diary supposed to be _their _secret and no other allowed in?

Seeing the mist, Harry bit his lip.

_Harry..._

A warm whisper of air brushed against him, and he felt Malfoy stiffen next to him. "Did you hear that?"

Harry nodded, and tugged the pale boy away from the wall. The creature was getting closer, its groaning hisses on the edge of hearing. They jogged through the darkness, the stores around them shut up and the air thick. Next to him, Malfoy muttered, "Father will be angry. I am not _allowed _to go into Knockturn without permission, and especially not without father or mother with me."

Harry blinked, but kept walking. Surely there was somewhere in this place they could hide. _'There is a burrow in the shadows. This one can smell it.'_

Harry stroked Salazar's diamond head, the scales cool under his touch. He spotted Malfoy staring, and he looked between them before telling Salazar, _'I think he likes you, Salazar. He keeps staring.'_

The serpent turned his violet gaze on Malfoy, and the boy stared. They were halfway across the street when Malfoy paused, "An inn is over there! I might be able to get a message sent to mother or father. If they have owls at this time of night, that is."

Harry let Malfoy led him across the alley into the darkness of the pub, shivering as he felt cold eyes watching.

* * *

It was chaos.

Half of Diagon was in an uproar, parts of the streets reduced to rubble and dust. Balls of light hovered in the air, lighting the streets as they continued to search for anything which could direct them in the _right _direction. The other half was whispering among themselves, questioning what could have done this. What could have enough magic to tear up stones and break apart pillars? Standing in the middle of the street, Lucius and Narcissa nearby, Julian eyed the path it took. One that branched off the side of the street, and, he knew without doubt, weaved its way around to the darkness of Knockturn Alley. Mad-Eye was talking to a witch nearby, and a few others from the Ministry were pulling details from shaken witches and wizards who were unnaturally pale. Closing his eyes, breathing deeply, Julian forced himself to calm down.

They had been missing for three hours. Two children couldn't get far in that amount of time, not with young Draco being Lucius Malfoy's son. He could only hope young Harry was with the pale, pureblooded child. He hoped the two were with each other considering how they vanished at the same time.

Casting a simple time charm, he felt his chest tighten. July 31st had just dawned, and midnight had fallen. Dawn was coming, and, knowing such, he canceled the spell as he circled his thoughts in his head. There were to many questions in his mind, to many numbers and theories. There was to much to think on, and not even half the answers were in his hands that he would need to figure out what was happening.

_A monster, dark and destructive, had came from nowhere. _Julian Figg twirled his wand around in his hand, a frown marring his features as he tried to figure out _what _was going on. Was it the same dark force the muggle Marge had brought into young Harry's home? The thought of _that _sent shivers down his spine. Nothing of that nature could bode well for the boy. And if it was following him...he shuddered to think what the child may be feeling.

"Anything?" Julian asked when he heard the telling sound of a wooden leg hitting the ground behind him. A grunt answered, and then Mad-Eye was next to him, glaring as he said, "Nothing. Not o' sign of the boy. Lupin's nearby. We're hoping he might be able to catch a scent."

Julian doubted it would work. There was something _unnatural _about the damage. Something beyond the magic he knew.

_Merlin, Harry. What is it about you that draws the most unlikely forces into your orbit? What could it be?_

He had no answers.


	12. Malfoys, Potions, and Cake

**Author's Note**: This is the twelfth installment of _'When Darkness Sings._'

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It was five past three, the sun slumbering beyond sight, when Lucius rushed from the tavern they had gathered at. Narcissa followed in her husband's wake, a stone clutched in the palm of her hand. Heart soaring, pulse beating rapidly in her chest, she hitched up her skirts to race across the street in the direction of Knockturn Alley. In the direction of her son.

_Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy,_

_Father, Mother, I am most sorry for have causing you to worry as you surely have these last few hours. That had not been my intention. What has happened is, without doubt, going to have repercussions so I shall save explanations until we are together. Harry and I, Julian Figg's charge, are staying in Knockturn Alley at the Black Water Inn. We patiently await your arrival._

_Your Loving Son,_

_Draconis Lucius Malfoy_

The words replayed in her mind, and, as she slipped into the dark alley, her gaze zoned in on her life-partner. She followed him through the inn's door, brushing aside those within, and swept her son into her arms before Lucius could utter a word. Draco, shaking and disgruntled, wound his arms around her neck as a small, black-haired boy stared at her with tired, emerald eyes hidden behind wire frames.

Easing her son down, smoothing his hair out of his face, she breathed a sigh of relief. Behind her, she could hear Lucius murmuring spells under his breath to ensure their son's health was well and safe. She turned her gaze to the boy, and, as her mouth opened, Draco said, "Do not blame him, Mother. Figg had upset him in the shop when we were getting sized, though I cannot say what they were arguing about. Harry's mute. Anyway, I left with him because I knew you would know what to do and then, to my complete horror, this monster came out of _nowhere_. It chased us _everywhere. _It had a scary roar it did, and it could move through _walls_ and shattered windows. It was truly frightening!"

"Draco, slow down." Lucius stepped up, and Narcissa turned her gaze to the black-haired child, this Harry, and looked him over. Her gaze swept back to her son as she asked, "You say he is mute?"

"Yes, Mother. Figg and Harry were talking, well, not really _talking. _Harry was making odd shapes and motions with his hands and Figg answered them, so I think he could read whatever Harry was saying." Draco paused, blinking owlishly before turning to look at Lucius, voice small as he asked, "Am I in trouble? I swear that I was trying to stay out of danger. It just...kind of hunted us down. _Repeatedly."_

"Merlin, my little Dragon, you are _not _in trouble." Narcissa smoothed her son's hair, stroking his face as she whispered, "We were worried. When you vanished from Madam Malkin's shop, I thought someone might have stolen you. That someone might have wanted to use your for a ransom."

"But I thought only _muggles _did things like that." Draco protested, grey eyes narrowing. "Wizards are better than that."

"Harry!" Narcissa's head snapped up as Julian Figg rushed into the inn, and blinked when Draco lurched sideways, voice cold as he snapped, "Leave him be, Figg."

"Young Malfoy, I must insist -"

"I do not _care _for a _word_ which may come out of your mouth." Draco interrupted, glaring, and his lips curled into an awkward sneer as he spat, "If _you_ had not upset him, we would _not _have been chased across Diagon Alley into _Knockturn _Alley. And you call yourself a_ wizard?!"_

Narcissa's gaze moved to the small boy, one which was shivering behind her son, and her gaze slowly moved back to the man her beloved son was confronting with narrowed eyes. Lucius stepped forward, voice almost a hiss as he asked, "What exactly did you say when the boy fled, Figg?"

"Harry ran away from home," Julian Figg began when the table behind them exploded, and, gasping with surprise, Narcissa smoothed her gown down as it whirled around her. She eyed the black-haired child clinging to her son's side, small and green eyes glowing like the Avada Kedavra. Small hands curled around her son's fingers, and, robes hanging awkwardly off thin shoulders, she slowly turned to look at Julian Figg with an air of dislike. "If his current state is a reason for his departure, than one cannot blame the child. He is much too thin."

"Albus knows what he's doing, Narcissa. He wouldn't put a child -" Narcissa's eyes narrowed as Lucius stepped forward, his frame stiff with rage as he snapped, "If it is for the _'greater good,' _Albus Dumbledore would sacrifice one of his own. Do not play the fool, Figg. It is unbecoming."

"Mother!" Narcissa's gave shifted to her son's panicked cry, and her eyes widened when the small, thin child's knees gave out. Draco, stumbling under the unexpected weight, fell into her arms as she lurched forward to catch them both. Pressing her wrist against a clammy forehead, heart skipping a beat when the heat nipped her skin, she turned her gaze on Figg as her son whispered, "Mother, why is he...is he...is he going to be alright?"

"Lucius!" Narcissa swept the child into her arms, gaze turning to ice as Julian stepped forward. "Come not near, Figg. I know not what Dumbledore thinks, but _this _is _unacceptable!"_

"You cannot mean to take the child with you!" Julian stepped forward, arms held out in a peaceful manner that did not sit well with Narcissa as Alastor Moody hobbled his way in, voice rough as he spat, "Ol' Albus knows what he's doing, Narcissa. The child's returnin' home to his family."

"Then you can speak with our Oath Taker in the Wizengamot." Lucius spat, his fingers tightening around his staff, before he turned on his heel, voice low as he snapped at the Innkeeper, "I am in need of your floo without delay."

"Lucius, you cannot -"

The blond turned, eyes iced over as he snapped, "Watch me."

* * *

"Gone?" Julian, hands folded across his lap, eyed the elderly man in front of him as one of the others answered, "Lucius Malfoy has taken young Hadrian into his home with a clear warning. He is more than willing to have his Oath Taker get involved, and, without doubt, would stop at nothing to get his hands on the boy. Hadrian Potter would be a sure way of getting the public's favor."

"I do not think he would use Harry for such a thing," Dumbledore murmured, eyes soft as he said, "Lucius and Narcissa might be strict parents of the Old Blood, but they would not use any magic-blooded child as a means to gain popularity. For whatever reason they have taken him, we are bound to know of their intentions soon enough."

"Do you think it might be due to the fact that he ran?" Julian finally questioned, brow furrowed as he added, "When he vanished, I was beside myself. I thought that, maybe, just maybe, one of You-Know-Who's minions might have found where he lived. That maybe, just maybe, they wanted revenge on the child because he killed their master."

"Julian..."

The young man shook his head. Looking up at Albus, Julian met his mentor's eyes as he asked, his voice light, "What if we're _not _enough to protect him? Marge, Vernon's sister, brought something evil into that house. Something which was Dark in nature. Whatever had happened today...I cannot think of any way it _isn't _related."

There was a commotion outside the room, and then the doors burst open as the low, snarling growl cut through the heavy silence with a rage unguarded and unhindered, _"You put him in danger?!"_

Julian turned to eye the fuming, amber-eyed godfather in the doorway, the werewolf's body tense with fury, as the wolf continued, "You had _one job, _Figg. Watch over him. _One Job!_ You taught him in his first years at school, tutored him when the Order didn't have you jumping loops, and yet _he still went missing under your watch!"_

"Remus, calm yourself!"

"I will not! Minerva, you ought to know that the Dursleys, the _Dursleys _for Merlin's sake, are not the ideal place to raise a magical child!" Julian watched as Lupin whirled around on the Transfiguration Professor, tattered clothes highlighting the muscles bunching beneath, as the wolf's voice reached a growl as he spat, "Lily put it in her _will _for Hadrian to _never _go there, not as long as Petunia was married to that _man!"_

Julian paused, brow furrowing as he looked at the wolf with a sharper gaze. "That man? Vernon? You know the Dursleys?"

Remus Lupin turned his gaze upon him, molten amber eyes cold as he growled, "I know them far better than I would like."

* * *

It was warm, this bed.

Harry stirred in the confines swamping him, the comforter soft and the air light. He rolled over onto his side, and eyes fluttered open when he felt a flicker of tongue taste his cheek. Gaze blurry, he smiled when he felt Salazar brush against his skin before asking, _'Where am I? Is Tom here?'_

_"You are well, hatchling." _Salazar bumped his head against his cheek, and then glided against the underside of his chin as he hissed, _"Nice two-legged ones have looked after this one's hatchling. The books are fine. This one did not allow them to touch what is not theirs to touch. The small two-legged one is nearby, however. He bothers the female two-leg, and questions the male one."_

_'How long have I been asleep?' _Harry rubbed his eyes, and, blinking, pulled his arm away to eye the green shirt hanging off of him. Running his hands along the fabric, awed by the slick texture, he turned his attention to his friend as the serpent hissed, _"You have slept most of the day, Hatchling. It is now what you two-legged ones call evening."_

_'Evening, huh?' _Harry turned his hands over, eyeing the bandages wrapped around them with a sinking stomach. _'So much for a wondrous eighth birthday, eh? Do you think it's safe to talk to Tom?'_

_"This one knows not." _Salazar hissed, and rose up to sway before him. _"However, this one is more than pleased to talk. How does the Hatchling feel? Are you warm?"_

Harry smiled. Slipping his legs out of the bed, wiggling his toes, he eyed the room through blurry eyes as he answered, _'I am. I'm tired, though. And hungry. And sore. Is the bad-thing gone?'_

Salazar, wrapped around his arm and partly on his lap, was halfway to answering when the bedroom door opened to reveal a woman with pale hair and wide, shocked, blue eyes. She paused, and, as if uncertain, stepped into the room. Salazar, twisting around, hissed and she paused as she said, "I assure you, I mean neither of you harm."

Harry absently reached to run his hands down the smooth, cool scales as he watched her close the door behind herself. Her voice was soft as she answered, "I thought you might like to wash before coming down to dinner. I am relieved to see that you are awake."

Harry nodded, smiling, and stood. She gestured him to follow, and led him into a long, warm corridor with many doors. He spotted a staircase nearby, the steps spiraling down and out of sight. Looking back at the woman wearing an elegant green and silver gown, her hair tied upon her head, Harry figured that, wherever he was, he might as well enjoy it while it lasted. Good things rarely lasted long.

Eyeing her as they made their way through the hall, her pale hair and equally pale skin reminding him of the boy, he frowned. Stepping closer, looking around his surroundings, ears strained, he wondered _where _this place was. He'd never been in a castle before, and _this _one was marvelous for his first introduction. Next to him, the woman murmured, "I am Narcissa Malfoy, by way of unasked questions. I am Draco's mother."

Harry peered up at the woman for a moment, and then smiled. The nice boy's mother? They did look a lot alike. He followed her into a brightly lit room a moment later, and stared, jaw agape, at the marble surfaces and the bathtub built into the floor with _steps _down into it unknown depths. Looking back at the lady, and then back at the tub, he shut his mouth before a slow, wide grin spread across his face. _This _was their bath? _How marvelous!_

Harry gently unwound Salazar from his shoulders, and placed his friend on the counter before letting the lady help him out of the nightgown he had been dressed in. He eyed the billowing sleeves with wonder, and happily wiggled out of the material with a wide grin. Who knew wealthy people liked to sleep in dresses? As he tested the water temperature, already in the tub and steam rising out of it, he felt the lady staring at him.

_'Narcissa, the two-legged female called herself.' _Salazar's mind brushed against his, and Harry turned to eye his friend as the snake continued, _'This one believes it is best to refer to two-legs by their second name.'_

_Do I call her Malfoy then? _Harry tossed the thought around in his mind, and scooped Salazar off the counter before easing his way into the water. The colorful serpent wound around his arm, and moved around his neck, as he hissed, _"This one does not understand two-legged naming habits. Lady, Malfoy, Narcissa. Many names for one creature, Hatchling, seems excessive to this one. At least this one need not bit the female for hurts."_

Salazar hissed happily when he was partly submerged, and then he unwound to slither into the depths of the water. Harry smiled as he watched the serpent swim, and his head lulled back when he felt fingers need into his hair as the lady, Mrs. Malfoy, murmured, "Odd things I have seen, but you, child, top the list. A Noctis in my home? I suppose I should be used to serpents in my manor. Tilt your head forward."

Harry listened, and wiggled when manicured nails tickled the back of his ears. He heard the door creak open, and then a voice, "I see the boy is awake. Draco was displeased to go in there to find him gone."

"My apologies." Mrs. Malfoy murmured a few words under her breath before a pail of water was emptying itself over his head, and, sputtering, Harry eyed the floating bucket with shock. Magic pails? "I thought he would rather be clean before dining with us. That, and I cannot think of a better way to get a child to relax than a hot bath. Had Draco known, I am certain he would be in the waters himself."

Harry turned, propped his elbows on the cool tiles of the floor, and gazed at the regal man walking into the bathroom with the air of a Lord. His hair was a stark contrast to his own black waves, all which fell limp around his face and tickling the back of his shoulders. Harry couldn't help but smile when he saw the snake-headed walking stick the man had with him. He was a blonde, just like his wife and son, and Harry wondered if _he _looked like his mother and father like Draco looked like his parents. As he thought back to Dudley, he thought it was possible. While Dudley looked like a small, round whale like Vernon looked like a large walrus, he had Petunia's complexion and they had the same, clear eyes. Looking between the Malfoys in front of him, he wondered which traits Draco inherited from his parents.

_"Two-legged ones are like files." _Salazar kissed as he glided out of the water and around his waist, _"They multiple rapidly though they follow the circle like any creature of life. Birth, youth, rutting, reproduction, death, and rebirth. An endless cycle."_

Harry absently stroked the diamond head, smiling as Salazar draped himself over his shoulder with his long, forked tongue tasting the air. _"These two taste of magic like you, Hatchling. Perhaps they shall help care for this one's first Hatchling?"_

"Is that a Noctis?" Harry turned his gaze to the male Malfoy, the man's grey eyes light a cloudy day, as Mrs. Malfoy murmured, "Yes, Lucius, we have a serpent of Old Blood in our halls once more. A Lacrimosa at that. A rare beauty to behold, is it not?"

"Indeed," Harry watched Mr. Malfoy as his wife carefully moved his fringe out of his face, brushing the black strands behind his ear. Squinting, blinking against the water in his eyes, he stilled when he felt a slender finger brush against his scar as the lady whispered, "Merlin, Lucius, I still find it hard to grasp who this child is. And those marks..."

Harry looked down at himself, at the layers of scars and burns mutilating the flesh of his hand and arm. Looking back up at the lady, head cocked to the side, he offered a sheepish smile before gesturing to the water. She smiled, and poured a pleasant smelling soap into a cloth as she said, "We certainly cannot allow you out of the water until your bath is complete, now can we? Lucius, dear, can you see to Draco while I get Mr. Potter ready for dinner?"

"Of course." Harry watched the man leave, a smile on his face as he slipped into a doze in the water. He was pulled out of the comfort when the pale, kind Mrs. Malfoy pulled him up, and helped him dry off and into a robe which was a bit large on him. One shoulder slipped off, and Harry blinked owlishly at the woman as a soft humming laugh escaped her. "Much too thin, indeed. Well, we shall fix that in time with a good meal."

Harry followed her out of the bathroom, Salazar wound like a crown on his head with his long tail draping down and around his shoulders.

* * *

"Just because they are _Light_ does not make them _good."_

Conversations fluttered through the air, and, carefully eating the food on the plate in front of him, Harry could not shake off the feeling of the dark-eyed man that was currently staring at him. Draco sat at his side, murmuring the names of the food and, after a careful gesture of inquiry from Harry, told him the dark-eyed man with the dark hair was Severus Snape. Apparently the man was a teacher of potions at a place called Hogwarts. For some odd reason, he could envision the man in front of a cauldron wearing an apron stirring a potion filled with odd ingredients.

"Come, Severus, we _both _know the press will not see it as such." Lucius commented as he sipped the sweet-smelling liquid in his cup. Wine, he thought it was called. Vernon hated the stuff. Said only _odd _people drank wine. Harry guessed that, to Vernon and his aunt, these people would be odd. _"As it stands, _Lucius, a levitation charm can be just as deadly as any high class curse. You could float someone up several stories, and drop them. A nasty sort of accident that would be, would it not?"

"I see your point." Harry glanced between the two men, and then turned his attention to Mrs. Malfoy when he felt her lightly tap the back of his hand.

"Would you like some more juice, Hadrian?" She asked, and he nodded before passing his goblet to her. She filled it, than Draco's, before adding a bit to her wine. She then took a small square of meat, rare and still red, and passed it to the curled up serpent resting on the table. Salazar took it with a happy hiss, his jaws closing around it before he swallowed it whole. "From what I understand, today is a day for celebration."

The table quieted for a moment, and Harry blinked at the pale women before looking over at Draco. Had something good happened? Draco merely raised a pale eyebrow in question, but offered no answer to the questions dancing in his eyes as Narcissa Malfoy said, "One does not turn eight every day, Hadrian. I do hope you like what I had the others prepare for you."

A small creature popped into existence, a cake bopping in the air behind it. The white and emerald creation was sat in the middle of the table, and the plates were cleared as Draco said, "You will just _love _this, Hadrian. Ticky and Dobby make the best cakes, you must know."

Sitting at the table, surrounded by people like Tom, a sense of yearning wiggled its way into his chest. Pointing at the cake, and then at himself, he eyed Draco with wide eyes. The blond frowned for a moment before saying, "If I'm right, and I know I am, then, _yes_, that cake is yours."

"Happy Birthday, Hadrian." Narcissa Malfoy murmured in his ear as she placed a slice of cake on his place, a helping of ice-cream surrounding it, and Harry beamed. A cake made for him. He waited until everyone had a piece of it in front of them, Salazar included, and then he took the first bite. It was paradise on high, and his eyes shut in bliss. A few presents found their way into his hands, and, as the night wore on, things were _right _for the first time in a long while.

Yet, as he fed Salazar from his own fork, he paused when he felt something _else _brush against his senses. Turning, his gaze moving towards the large, glass windows, a flicker of shadows danced out of sight. Something black, something large, and a subtle breeze of icy wind gently stroked his back before his mind turned back to the bliss surround him, a whisper lurking on the wind.

_Harry..._


	13. Fundamental Magic

**Author's Note**: This is the thirteenth installment of _'When Darkness Sings._' Also, I have _wonderful _news! A generous soul, Nekomode, is going to be translating this story into another language for others to enjoy who do not read English! I'm quite thrilled about it, and I wanted to share this news with everyone because this is an _exciting _moment for me! Honestly, I hadn't thought it was popular enough for something like that. Normally the really large, thousand-something review stories get that spotlight. Honored, that's what I am!

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The Dursleys liked to think themselves as a normal family, thank you very much. Two of them knew it was a lie, whereas the other lived in delusions.

Petunia sat the dishtowel on the counter, the house empty and the home light. Dishes were finished; Dudley started his third year as a student just a week prior. Glancing towards the calendar, the days which her nephew had been missing marked in red, was enough to make her weak at the knees. A month. He had been gone for a month without any sign of his return. Those working with the Police Department have found no sign of him, and she was beginning to suspect the worst.

_'If you're getting this letter now, Tuney, then I'm sorry. I was never the sister you needed.'_ Words danced in the back of her mind as she sat at the table, her gaze on the folded letter in her hands. _'I hope that one day Hadrian will be able to meet you, but someone wants him dead. I hope you will take this to heart and not turn him, or my words aside, in his time of need. This man, he will do **anything **to hurt Hadrian. Anything. Should he ever learn of you, I fear what he shall do. Tuney, my dear sister, I only hope that our past is exactly that: our past. We have a duty to our blood. To our family. I hope that, should it come to pass, that if Hadrian is in need of you, you will help him. If you cannot do this for me, then, please, do it for a boy who will hold the world on his shoulders.'_

Petunia folded her hands around the letter, the edges rough with age. A phantom pain danced under her skin, her face tingling. Rising a hand, probing her cheek with questioning fingers, she wondered if someone had played around with her mind. She recalled her sister talking about something like that years ago, when Lily still had been in school. Eyes closing, she liked to think that, when she was alone like she was, she could hear her younger sister's tinkling laughter and bright, glowing emerald eyes filled with hope and happiness. Throat tight, eyes opening to observe her kitchen and hope with a heavy heart, a single tear caressed her cheek.

A testament to her pain.

* * *

"Are you listening to a word I say?" Draco drawled, nose upturned as he swept down the hallway. _"Wizards _are the superior race, Potter. Muggles are just bystanders, Father says. Completely unimportant."

Harry was sure he didn't agree. He followed the pale boy into the sitting room, blinking with surprise as he took in the other children drinking tea and murmuring among themselves. His attention was pulled back to the Malfoy heir as Draco continued, "As it stands, _we _are superior because _they _are weaker than us."

Frowning, Harry tilted his head to the side. Draco sighed, "Honestly, Potter, do you know _nothing _of the differences between them and us?"

Harry shrugged in answer as a girl with short hair asked, "Who is this, Draco?"

"Morning, Pansy." Draco greeted the girl as he took his seat, and Harry sat next to him when the blond motioned him forward. The Malfoy heir didn't skip a beat as he continued, "This is Hadrian Potter. We ran into each other in Diagon Alley at Madam Malkin's shop, and, well, I am unsure of _what_ happened, but he is staying with my family for the time being."

"Honestly, Malfoy," A dark-skinned boy interrupted, one black eyebrow arched as he said, "Is there a reason Potter's not introducing himself?"

"He's mute, Zabini." Draco sipped his tea as Harry curled his fingers around his own cup, the heat soothing as it seeped into healing hands. He eyed the other children surrounding him - the girl with the short hair, the dark-skinned boy, another boy with a book sitting on the table in front of him, a large girl who looked nine or ten years old who was, from what he understood, seven years old at least, and eight at most. Looking between them, he noticed they all had the same sharp, intelligent eyes. It was the larger girl who broke his concentration, her voice low as she murmured, "Mute, you say? How will he attend Hogwarts if he cannot speak?"

A slow smile stretched across Harry's face at the question, and he gestured to the pen and journal on the table. Draco eyed him for a moment before reaching forward, his fingers shy of touching the slick tube before it leapt into the air and directly into Harry's palm. The blond stared at him, jaw agape and eyes impossibly wide, before he hissed, "Did you just do _wandless_ magic?"

"I think the fact that it was _nonverbal _is far more important," A voice drawled from the doorway, and Harry turned in his seat to eye the two men entering the room. A flick of his hand, and his journal leapt into his hand. He didn't want them knowing _Tom _was teaching him whenever he was able to sneak a moment, though the spells he learned were small ones. "No more than eight, and yet he can still cast a spell without the aid of accidental magic. In most situations, the magic just happens. Yet he seems to have some fundamental grasp on what he is capable of doing. Impressive, truly, for one so young."

Mr. Malfoy sat in an armchair next to the hearth, the flames highlighting his face as the other man, Professor Snape Harry recalled, watched silently from the sidelines as Lucius Malfoy asked, "Are there other spells you can do, Potter?"

Biting his lip, fingers curled protectively around Tom's journal, which was heating up as a sign of acceptance, Harry nodded before making a _'so-so'_ gesture with his hand. Tapping a pattern out on the spine, he watched the two adults trade secretive looks before Mr. Malfoy turned those steely grey eyes on him, voice even, "Perhaps you could show us? Perhaps you can cast lumos?"

_Lumos?_

The word stirred oddly in his head, and he was itching to open the diary. In the three weeks he had been under the Malfoy's careful generosity, there was an abundant of curiosities which called to him. Many he could not grasp, but Tom had been able to explain some things. Like the portraits. He could still recall the words - _Magic can do many things, my child. It is not an uncommon thing for one in a wizarding family to imbue their magic into a canvas so that, when they pass over into the next world, a part of them can reside to aid those in their family when their help is needed - _with startling clarity. Yet the few spells Tom _had _taught him were easier to understand than what he had learned in his cupboard when Tom was teaching him how to use his magic to unlock the door.

Summoning something to him was fun. Yet he still did not know what _lumos _meant. The question danced behind his eyes, and Mr. Malfoy was silent a moment before withdrawing an odd stick-like thing from the head of his staff. "Perhaps I can illustrate. _Lumos."_

A light gathered on the end of his wand, bright and clear. Harry stared at it in awe, and smiled. _That _was a nifty trick. Had he been able to do that, he wouldn't have needed candles to read by at night. He eyed the Head of the Malfoy family with curious eyes as the man said, "That is lumos. It creates lights, while _nox, _as you can see, is the counter."

Lumos turns the light on, and nox turns it off. Harry nodded in understanding, and chewed his lip as he wondered if _he _could make a light. Eyeing the man, he slowly shook his head before gesturing to the book sitting in front of him. Concentrating, as Tom had once said that _focus _and _will _were far more important than words, he watched with satisfaction as the book flipped open. He eyed it as pages shuffled, and he idly wondered what was written in those pages.

"Did someone in the Muggle world teach you," Harry's gaze moved to Professor Snape, the silent man stepping forward with an unreadable look in his eyes. Again Harry worried his lip before making the_ 'so-so'_ gesture a second time. Fidgeting under the collective gazes, feeling the odd pool of energy in his body spike, he felt the slumbering Salazar shift before lifting his head out of the neck of his robes. Easily winding the snake around his hands, he eyed the two adults with open wonder as one Severus Snape asked, "You were shown some of the magic, but learned how to use it on your own?"

Slowly, Harry nodded. _I don't want to get Tom in trouble._

The book heated up, the warmth a steady presence he could feel against his legs through his robes. Salazar shifted, wound up his arm, and perched his cyan-colored head on his shoulder. A forked tongue flicked out, tasting his cheek, before the snake hissed, _"They can try to take this one's Hatchling's den-mate but this one will bite if they are stupid enough to get near the book."_

The thought was a comforting one.

* * *

Rain settled over the Dursley household, but Dudley didn't hear it.

A book sat in front of him, but the contents were forbidden. Glancing at the door, and then at the small container he had found, he closed his eyes. If he was right, then _something _in this...this...this _thing _would be able to explain his cousin's oddities. Stroking the name on the inside cover, the letters spelling _Lily Evans_ in a fine script, he frowned. He knew he wasn't supposed to be messing with these things, but, yet, there was _something _in the air, something which _lingered, _that didn't sit well with him. The darkness was gone, but now? Now there was this low humming sound, and Dudley could pinpoint the noise. It was in the basement.

Flipping through the pages, looking for the text the letter next to him mentioned. A lot of it was in a language he _didn't _know, but two words stuck out which made him flip through the book like a man possessed: _Blood Wards. _Whatever was going on, he was determined to figure it out. With, or without, his father's permission, Dudley Dursley did what he thought was best.

Learning the truth which revolved around his cousin was the only thing he could concentrate on. Not even the Black Widow that sat perched on the edge of his desk deterred him, nor the pulsing energy emitted from the basement itself could put a halt to the single-minded determination which fueled him. As he flipped through the pages, his eyes scanning the words, he knew that he could figure out this puzzle.

_After all, hadn't we promised to look after him?_

* * *

It was midnight, but Harry wasn't tired in the least. Draco's friends were staying the night, and Draco's friend's parents were downstairs speaking to Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy. Harry could feel them. He could sense their magic tickling the edge of his senses, present and tempting, and, as he sat with his friend curled around his shoulders, the snake's mind gently brushing against his, Harry balanced Tom's diary on his knee.

_Tom? _Harry's writing was rough, the edges sharp, and the quill in his hand felt awkward. A moment later, the answer came: _I am pleased to know you are awake, child. How was your day?_

_I met Draco's friends. I did a little magic, and the man, Snape, sat with me a while to talk to me about the theory of magic. I think that's what he called it. _Harry brushed his hand across the page as the book swallowed the words, and he paused when he felt something cold, something _familiar, _brush against the manor's magic. Looking back at the book, he quickly scribbled: _I'm not sure why, but the creepy thing that tried to get me followed me to Draco's house. But it seems stuck, like it can't pass the gates outside. It's trying, though._

Harry spent the next hour describing the feelings he had in more detail, all under Tom's prompting: _Then, three weeks ago, I felt it enter the manor before it was, like, thrown away. It's been pacing the edge of the manor since. Tom...Tom, I'm frightened of it. What will I do when I have to leave?_

_We need to figure out what it is. _Tom finally wrote, and, after a moment, he added: _However, I do believe that you being with the Malfoys is a sign. I know the family. Abraxas Malfoy, Lucius's father if I understand this correctly, was a...friend of mine. I am certain that we can employ their help, but, in order to do so, I need more substance than what this book offers me. Do you still have my tome?_

Harry eyed the large book resting on the bedside table, the black, silk covering wrapped around it with _SS _engraved in the center, the two letters back-to-back and woven together like two snakes. Salazar Slytherin, Tom had told him. The name brought a smile, and he gazed at the slumbering serpent wrapped around his shoulders. His gaze moved back to the book as Tom wrote: _There's a spell in there that I'll need, but, for the time being, there is a way you can help me. Easy it shall not be, but it will help me **help you,**_ _Harry._

Swallowing, Harry dipped the tip of the quill into the ink, and wrote: _What can I do?_

_I am in need of blood, child. _Harry froze, blinking at the words as they continued: _The magic which runs in your veins will give me a foothold into the realm of the physical. The more you give me, the stronger I will be. Magic willingly sacrificed is a priceless gift._

Give Tom his blood? It was a daunting thought, and, dipping the quill again, he asked: _How will I give you my blood, Tom?_

The diary was silent for a moment before the words came in an elegant scrawl: _Unless you want to give yourself a deep paper cut, the best option would be a blade. That, or asked Salazar to bite you. As he is your familiar, his venom would numb you instead of harm you. A pleasant side-effect of having a serpent bond itself to your magic._

Harry eyed the snake wound around him, and then the journal: _It would be easiest to have Salazar bite me, wouldn't it? If I grabbed a knife, I think Mrs. Malfoy may have a panic attack._

_Only if she saw, _Tom answered, and then, as an afterthought, he added: _It would be best to start with a small amount of blood, and just add more to it later on. As you are young, I do not wish to overwhelm you. Once a month should be plenty; it would be best to do this when the moon is full, and the night's magic is at its strongest._

Harry agreed with that. Harry gently closed Tom's diary, and rested it next to his pillow as he eyed the tome.

As he turned his thoughts to Salazar, Tom wrote: _Be wary of the darkness, child. Always be wary._


	14. Secrets in the Wind

**Author's Note**: This is the fourteenth installment of _'When Darkness Sings._'

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A sharp, unsuspecting cry broke the silence.

"She did what!?" A vase flew across the room, shattering when it hit the wall. A sound similar to a growl echoed across the room, eyes burning in the dim light as lips pulled back to reveal sharp teeth gleaming. "How did it get across the wards? _How? How!?"_

Whispered voices, people scattering as a chair was hurled across the open space. A door opened, someone stomping down a flight of stairs. A door slammed shut. Portraits rattled on the wall, the occupants within them grumbling about fools and idiots messing with forces they know next to nothing about. A breath rattled with an unnamed emotion, eyes narrowing as they turned to the man sitting behind his candy-laden desk, and then, "I think you have made a serious err in judgment, Albus."

"How so?"

Unblinking, disapproving eyes, "Wolves are notorious for their ire when it is sparked."

"I had not been aware of your knowledge on werewolves."

"I'm a feline for a reason, Albus," A swish of robes, a door opening with a whisper of sound, "He knows, Albus. Fall from favor, and _all _will pay for it."

* * *

It was early morning, and the last thing Harry wanted was to be pulled from his slumber by a surprised shriek. He rolled over onto his side, Salazar's coils adjusting around him, before he slowly pushed himself up onto his hands and knees to see Draco on his backside staring at something sitting in the middle of the room. Brow furrowing, Harry crawled across the bed, and the blond's eyes widened.

"Stay where you are, Hadrian!" Harry paused, and then his head cocked to the side before he looked over the edge to see a large, fat spider on the ground. Its front legs were raised, quivering, and a large smile crossed his face as he slide his legs off the bed and landed on the floor. Across from him, Draco exclaimed, "What are you _doing_, you nitwit!?"

Harry ignored him in favor of the large insect, entranced by the impossible size. Running a finger down the back, watching the two legs in the air still in their threat, he smiled. He hadn't seen a spider in a while. In the back of his mind, he felt Salazar's irritation as Harry scooped the large, eight-legged creature into his hands. The front legs fell, and Harry watched with a wide smile as the spider's legs brushed across his hands before beginning its ascent up his arm to rest on his shoulder where it brushed his cheek.

Had the spiders missed him too?

A moment later, Harry felt Salazar coiling around his ankle. _'Foul creatures, those eight-legs. Foul they are, this one thinks.'_

"H-H-_Hadrian!" _Draco's outcry was enough to have the door creaking inward, and then he saw Mrs. Malfoy pausing in the doorway with her pale skin losing all color. Harry blinked, and then smiled before gesturing to his newest friend perched on his shoulder as Draco grasped the volume of his mother's skirts, voice quivering, "He _picked it up, _Mother! The spider, he _picked it up _right off the _floor!"_

Harry reached up, and petted the large creature as Narcissa said, "Draco, the thing which you refer to is an arachnid."

"A what?" Harry mind wrapped around the same question, and he heard Salazar hiss in annoyance as the snake muttered, _"Why do two-legs give other species such complicated names?"_

Draco blinked up at his mother as Harry watched the two in bemused silence as Narcissa answered, "A spider, Dragon. An arachnid is a spider."

Harry filed the word in his mind, determined to ask Tom for more information on such things as Draco said, "Hadrian picked up a spider, mother. Surely that is not safe."

"I cannot see reason for you to worry considering he is fine." Harry agreed with her. The spider danced down his arm, and Harry juggled it between his hands as he smiled. His friends would never hurt him. He shivered when he felt Salazar brush against his hip, the scales brushing across his skin as the snake hissed, _"This one cannot fathom why they like you, hatchling. Perhaps your friend in the odd shaped tree can shine answers on that."_

_A good idea, that, _Harry mused as he watched Draco talking to his mother. A moment later, he frowned. _Do you think will know what the shadow-thing is?_

Salazar hummed in thought, but did not answer. Narcissa turned her gaze upon him a second later, and asked, voice gentle, "Hadrian, dear, do get dressed. Breakfast is in an hour, and Lucius will be eating with us this morning."

Harry beamed, and then held up the spider with large, hopeful eyes. Narcissa swallowed, voice strained as she said, "I suppose the arachnid can come to breakfast with us as long as it does not do anything which would, shall we say, _threaten _those at the table."

Harry couldn't even get _that _thought around his head. Spiders hurting people?

What kind of world did these people live in?

* * *

Whispers drifted in the wind. Rumors.

Pansy sat at the table with her parents, her mother's voice light as she spoke with her husband. Like the others, she had told her parents the news of the Malfoy's findings. Hadrian Potter. It was odd, she mused as she carefully ate her bagel, how _the _Hadrian Potter ended up in the home of a Malfoy. It went against all logic, though she knew her parents were discussing the same thing.

"I do wonder if Narcissa and Lucius found out why the boy left home." Pansy eyed her father, wondering how he would answer her mother's question with something that would satisfy her _own _questions. Mr. Parkinson set his knife aside, and leaned back in his chair as he eyed them before he said, "There are many things I think, though I am unsure of which could be true. Lucius and I have a hand in the Ministry, and all things considered, the files all suggested he was living with his muggle relatives."

He frowned for a moment, and then added, "For all intents and purposes, if the Malfoys are refusing to release him to Dumbledore even after a formal request, then the matter at hand is a serious one. The press is unaware, as is the Ministry. The only way either will come up is if Dumbledore makes this a matter of law."

"Which is unlikely," Pansy mused aloud, unawares of her parents gaze. A gentle hand landed on top of hers, and she turned to her mother as Hawthorn asked, "Is there something you know, Pansy? Something you saw?"

Pansy worried her lip, and glanced over at her father before she answered, "He has magic, Mother. Powerful magic, I think. Mr. Malfoy had been intent when he questioned Potter on it. Even Draco had been intent, and you _know _what he is like! Then there were the bruises..."

"Bruises?" Her father sat up imminently, eyes narrowed. "What bruises, Pansy?"

"On his arm, Father." She responded without thought, and her gaze met her father's as she added, "I saw it, when he summoned one of the books in the room to him. It looked like a hand-print, though it was fairly light. It vanished a moment later, though, but I am certain it was there."

"What you saw was an impression." He said a moment later, and then his gaze shifted back to his wife as he added, "Magic can do many things. If he is strong at such a young age, it is possible that the other children's magic may have reacted to it."

Pansy agreed. Millicent, Theo, and Blaise reported similar occurrences. _Was it accidental magic_, she asked herself?

Or was it something more?

* * *

Harry followed after Draco, the two of them running through the halls of Malfoy Manner. The blond was quick, his steps sure, but Harry was faster. He darted around the blond, a light touch landing on his friend's shoulder, before he vanished around the bend. He heard Draco laugh, and a smile pulled at his lips as he slipped into a room and up a flight of stairs. Having been with the Malfoy's for over a month, he knew every hall and cranny of the manor as well as he knew the Dursleys' house.

Tag had never been so much fun.

He felt Tom's diary heat up a moment later, and, smiling, he darted up another flight of stairs. He knew it would take Draco some time before he doubled back to check these rooms because he had hid in them the last round. Harry always made sure to _never _hide in the same place twice, not one after the other, so he knew he would have a few minutes to talk to his friend. Slowing down, and sinking behind an old couch covered in a white sheet, Harry smiled. He pulled Tom's journal from the small pack strapped to his hips, something Narcissa made him since she saw he was often carrying his art supplies and a few notepads around with him.

She was really nice, he mused as he fished out a quill and a vial of ink. He flipped the page open, and smiled when he saw Tom's words written across the top of the page: _Harry?_

_Afternoon, Tom. _Harry knew Tom was getting anxious. The full moon was the following day, and they could begin the process of getting him out of the diary. Rocking back on his heels, he eyed the page as Tom asked: _By any chance, are you playing hide-and-seek with Draco?_

Blinking, Harry answered: _I'm hiding right now. Draco's a good seeker, you know._

The pages seemed to hum with amusement at his words before the response came: _Intriguing thing to say, child. I do have a task up for you. Would you like to help me with something?_

Harry's face stretched into a smile: _What do you need me to do?_

* * *

Books were something he would never, on any given occasion, read. In school, the teachers often compared getting him to read was like pulling teeth. At home, his father never bothered. His mum did not push the issue, but he knew she had seen him in his room flipping through the various books he had found. As far as he was concerned a year ago, he would never have given up any of his spare time to flip through endless pages in a book that never ended to learn something about his cousin.

But he was. The diary was filled with information, and there were experts from the writer's first years in a magical school. While it had been exciting, it had taken endless days and night of stolen moments of _reading_ to get where he wanted, and, now, he was feeling confused and frightful of the things being explained. Scared, and hopelessly sad, he knew the journal was ending because the pages were slowly starting to thin out.

_Blood Wards are a form of ancient magic and seldom used due to the association with Blood Magic. I know that, when He comes, there will be no other choice. If I cannot persuade him to spare Hadrian, my little Harry, then I can offer a different protection for my beloved son._ Dudley swallowed, and leaned back in his bed as he held the diary in his grasp. This book, detailing so much, explaining so much, was the only way he could understand. He hadn't expected a month to pass before he was able to find the information to become available. The book was magic. He had read _hundreds _of pages, and yet the diary in his hands was still thin as could be. He didn't understand how it worked, but he was relieved that, for some reason, it was allowing him to read the contents despite him being a normal person. A muggle, he believed._ He will come. I know it. Sometimes I dream, and I see what will happen. I fear for Hadrian. I fear for James. I fear for Remus, and the wolf within him once things come to be. I fear for the hardship this will heap on Sirius's shoulders. I fear for the nightmare of Peter's betrayal._

Dudley trembled with an emotion he could not name, his eyes wide. It wasn't the first time he read her mentions of her fear, the things which were to come. He glanced over at the clock on the wall, seeing it was a little past eleven. Midnight was closing in. Turning his gaze back to the diary, he continued to read his aunt's confessions. _I hope Tuney can forgive me for the hardship I will place on her when my son is old enough to meet her. As long as she is married to Vernon, I cannot trust her to protect Harry. I have seen the man, I have seen the darkness in his soul, and I fear it. I fear he will be Hadrian's undoing. I fear so many things. Yet I have to pretend to be strong because, if I do not, then James will begin to fear as well. I suspect he knows time is running out. I fear he knows He will kill him in the days to come, but he dares not ask. He knows I cannot answer._

_Blood Magic is powerful, but it comes with a price. Magic comes with a price, though I suspect very few are aware of such a thing. Even the purebloods of the world have forgotten the truth, the strain it puts on our souls. I hope Albus will do as I have asked. I hope that Remus, despite his status, will be my son's guardian. Or he will do as I asked on the last I have asked, that, in some way, my dear friend will aid in my son's protection. I know Albus. He's a good man, or so I thought. Will he protect Harry? Will he protect my son? My blood? My family?_

Confessions. Dudley read the last line over and over, a tear trailing down his face as he learned about the woman his aunt was. A kind lady, though he knew his aunt was unaware of the truths her sister was forced to take on. Lily Potter nee Evans, mother of Hadrian James Potter, and aunt of the boy who was seeing into her very mind, was a complex lady. His gaze returned to the last line again, and, with a heavy heart, he mouthed the last sentence: _I know my fears will not be swayed for I know the truth: tonight I will die, and the victory the world will savor will be the calm before the storm; Merlin have mercy on us all._

* * *

Darkness had fallen hours before, and the air was heavier still.

Glancing out the window, Harry could see the shadow-beat prowling around the barrier surrounding Malfoy Manor. He knew the others couldn't see it, though he and Tom had yet to figure out why. He was beginning to draw his own theories, something Tom advised he do, and then they would talk about it. His friend was a brilliant teacher, and lessons in the Malfoy Manor were intriguing. A lot he did not understand, most of it taught from an early age, but the books lining his bookshelf were worn from use. He studied them relentlessly, knowing that he could understand Tom better, that he could understand himself, if he was able to understand the world he was in and what it meant to be there.

Glancing at the book resting in the middle of the room, perched on the foot of the bed, he knew the main problem was due to the fact that Tom was trapped within the diary. He figured his friend was restless, feeling trapped and helpless, but Harry knew their solution would lessen the impact the cage the pages tended to be. He also knew their conversations helped, though Tom was often temperamental and didn't like disobedience.

He really was a king, Harry mused as he glanced at the clock. The minute hand moved past midnight, and Harry smiled as he sat in the window-seat. As late as it was, he couldn't bring himself to care. His mind turned back to the conversation he had earlier in the day as he stroked Salazar's scales, the serpent lying in his lap asleep, coiled upon himself, and Harry closed his eyes. Harry could pull the restraints open with a bit with a bit of his blood, and it was something he and Tom had discussed. A part of him would be free, one link in the proverbial chain broken.

_I will be able to use a small portion of my magic, Harry. I won't be able to leave, and I'll be weak as a babe, but my magic will grow. I had another way, another purpose, for this diary of mine, but now things are different. _Harry had not understood what Tom had meant with that, and, upon questioning, Tom had answered: _After a certain amount of exposure, I would have been able to draw upon the other's life. It was a defense mechanism. From what the few books you have been able to share with me, it was well thought out on my part. There are many who would wish to kill me, who would want to destroy my diary if they realized I was in here, and that's why I cannot stress the importance of keeping me a secret._

Tom had assured him that he had no intention of hurting him, and Harry knew his friend would protect him. Tom was a good person. His mind switched back to the conversation, and how he ended up in a book in the first place: _There is a form of ancient, forbidden magic that allowed me to store a part of my soul in an object. I had found out about that, and, wanting power, wanting to be someone great, I had not hesitated to do so. It would make me immortal, immune to death. I was sixteen, young Hadrian. Like any child my age, I feared death. When I made my first Horcrux, I may have made more. What you have in your hands in half of a soul. The other half of me? I have no way of knowing what became of my body and the soul in it. If I had continued splitting my soul in half, I would have lost all reason, all logic, and all sense of self-preservation for a goal which would have lost all meaning in time._

Everyone made mistakes, and even Tom, as strong-willed as he was, admitted as much with a flowery choice of words. Harry understood his desire for finding the remaining pieces, for learning what had happened to the other soul-holders, but he wasn't sure how he could do that. He was only eight years old. In three years, he knew, he would go to Hogwarts. He would be able to do more, but, until then, he would do what he could to help his friend with his pursuit of freedom.

Well, as free as he could be in a situation like his. A movement drew his eye from outside, and he saw the shadow-beast change directions before pressing up against the barrier, its form flickering with what looked like sparks of electricity. He remembered Dudley putting a wet finger in an electric-socket, and what had happened after; the creature outside looked like _that, _only worse - _far worse._

Tom was going to know what it felt like to be free. Harry was sure of it. He had to be. He could not see Tom in any other situation than that. Someone like Tom was a leader, a King waiting to take his Throne. The only thing he knew, though, was that Tom needed his help. Tom needed him to keep the soul in his hands safe, to keep it secret, but he was unsure of _how _he could manage such a feat. All that mattered, in his eyes, was Tom's freedom and the throne waiting to be reclaimed by its king.

As he sat smiling in the window-seat, the creature prowling outside, Harry knew he would do anything to help his friend obtain it.

* * *

"Awake?" Narcissa glanced over at her husband, lips pressed into a tight line. "No, he is not awake. I put him to bed with Draco's help. He sleeps."

Lucius Malfoy sipped at his wine, and as she watched him set the glass on the arm of his chair, his pale fingers tapping a rhythm into the base of the glass, she remained silent. She sat her hands in her lap, wand under her fingertips, as Lucius glared into the flames. He was silent, and, glancing over at Severus, she was uncertain about how to proceed in this tense silence. She was about to open her mouth when her husband spoke, "Hadrian James Potter, eight years old, is staying in _our _home when _he _was the one to take _Him _down in the war. A malnourished child, mute but as alert as any of us, who was placed in a muggle household under _Dumbledore's _orders. A child with a highly venomous serpent as a familiar, and apparently, has a fondness for _spiders._"

Narcissa had a feeling she knew where this was going, and, breath held, she listened to him continue, "Something does not add up. These things,"

He held up a thick file, his eyes narrow as he continued, "tell a rather _interesting _tale. I am uncertain of our Cause with _this _in my hands."

"Lucius," Severus sat his cup on the table, brow furrowed as he asked his pale friend, "What have you uncovered?"

"The old fool and the Ministry seem to have some _secrets, _shared ones at that, which make me question what I was led to believe during the War."

Narcissa watched the folder hit the table as her husband cast it aside, his voice like ice as he spat, "Lily Potter nee Evans had a will, you see. In it, she specified that her son, one Hadrian James Potter, was to be placed in the custody of Sirius Black or Remus Lupin, both the godfathers of the child in question, should anything happen to her and James Potter. This was James's wish, and it was one she agreed with. However, there is an additional name to the will, one which she added _without _her husband's consent."

Narcissa frowned. Lily Potter doing something behind her husband's back? With her hands folded across her lap, she watched as Lucius turned his gaze on Severus with a sharp gleam in his eyes, voice low as he hissed, "Yours."


	15. As Madness Nears

**Author's Note**: This is the fifteenth installment of _'When Darkness Sings._' Also, a small note for my precious readers, I have recently posted the first chapter to my second story: _'Fade To Black: The Serpent and the Stone._' For those who are enjoying this story, I think that, perhaps, you may also enjoy the other. So do give it a chance, and, hopefully, you will enjoy it as much as you are enjoying this one.

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There were many things he had done in his life. Bad things. Unspeakable things.

Standing in front of the cauldron, his brow furrowed in thought, Severus Snape could not comprehend how his life could have taken such a dramatic leap in light of his actions. His tarnished past. Lucius was a man of many charms, but Severus did not think his friend would pull something like _this _on him. Casting a silent stasis charm on the simmering potion, the Potions Master stepped away as he tried to wrap his mind around the facts swirling in his mind. As he tried to grasp onto the truth of the matter, the unwavering faith Lily Potter nee Evans had in him despite the divide which tore them apart all those years ago, he could not bring himself to see the small, eight-year-old boy as a replica of his _father. _He could not see the smiling, trusting little boy who observed _everything _the Malfoy's did in hopes of understanding his own inheritance. As he slipped through the door to his quarters, he _knew _Hadrian Potter was nothing like James.

James Potter had not run away from home. Potter had never shown signs of abuse, of neglect, or malnutrition. Potter had never been mute. Potter had never found a liking for serpents, let alone the deadly ones, and he had an adverse dislike of spiders one could call intense paranoia or fear. Potter and his son were _nothing _alike, and Severus expected it had something to do with the fact that the child had grown up in the home of Petunia and Vernon Dursley. Petunia. The name had him scowling as he relocated the cauldron to a storing chamber; the potion needed to set for a week before he could add the final ingredients. He remembered the woman rather well, and had hoped the incident of having part of a _tree _fall on top of her would have made her more cautious with magic in general. It appeared to have done the opposite.

Somehow, after all these years, Lily still managed to surprise him; guardianship of one Hadrian James Potter. It was unthinkable.

_Lily, what ailed you? _Severus entered his quarters, the fire roaring, and tossed his outer robe over the back of a chair. He swept into the kitchen where his coffee waited. He leaned against the counter as he summed the will, Lily's testament, to his waiting hand. She had left her son, the son of James _Potter, _in his capable hands should anything happen? It was as if something was beating uncontrollably in his chest, and he could see her flashing, emerald eyes in his mind's eye when she begged him, late in his last year at Hogwarts, _not _to take the Mark. The fear in those eyes. She had always been so strong, so unlike a Gryffindor, in those moments. She knew things she shouldn't have. _What did you see, Lily? What horrors did you know that you could not share?_

Holding onto the will, thinking about the small boy who played hide-n-seek with his godson, Severus knew he had a choice to make. He knew something had to be done. He only hoped Lupin didn't find out about this. It would spell out disaster for everyone involved. As he sat down in one of the chairs around the kitchen table, his mind replayed the events in Malfoy Manor. The conversation, the will itself, the discovery of the guardians chosen. He wasn't sure _how _Lucius managed to get such a solid grip on Potter's account records. The worried air of the Malfoy Head was alarming. Worried for their Cause, indeed.

How many things was Dumbledore hiding? And how much of it was Lily aware of?

* * *

Magic was a wondrous thing.

A small, bobbing light danced in the air above Harry as he made his way into the depths of Malfoy Manor. He had Tom tucked under his arm, the diary warm and comforting as he went about this odd task his friend sent him on. He wasn't sure _how _the light stayed there. From the few books Mrs. Malfoy got him, those which were based around magical theory, he understood one needed to _focus _on the magic to keep it going. Glancing up at the light, one he had conjured without wand or phrase, Harry began questioning the logic of older wizards. Why did they need to make magic difficult when it could be simple?

_Why am I looking for these old wands anyway? _Harry questioned himself as he slipped into a new room. He remembered Tom telling him about his task, and why it was so important. It still seemed odd to him, the boy mused, but he figured his friend knew what he was doing. Even if it _was _stealing. _Only for a small time, anyway. Tom said I could put it back after the first transfer is done._

Making his way into another room, his gaze scanning the contents, he felt a frustrated spark flaring to life in his chest. Why did the Malfoy's live in such a large home when there were only _three _of them? Unless they had ghosts. Harry had spotted the slumbering pictures, the family members of old, as he traveled through the house. From around his shoulders, he felt Salazar shift before the snake hissed, _"There are two other wands we could obtain. The ritual, the odd-shaped-tree said, would take only a few minutes."_

Harry paused, head cocked to the side. He stroked Salazar's head, a smile spreading across his face. That was a clever idea. A few minutes, he knew, was all Tom would need. Turning on his heels, returning to his chambers, he crouched on the ground to stare into the violet eyes of his friend. _Will you be able to get into their room without waking them up, Salazar?_

The snake rose up into the air, waving back and force, as it hissed, _"Of course, hatchling. This one is a Noctis. There are none better than I."_

* * *

He could hear the waves lapping at the stones.

He could smell the salt in the water and air. He could hear the moans of despair. Sitting hunched in his cell, shaggy hair tangled and eyes glinting with a type of madness, he tried to recall his name. There were many things in the depths of his mind, far away, he could hardly recall. It was there, like the cold stones he sat on. There were empty like his stomach after days without food.

He pulled at memories he could hardly clasp in his hands, tried to recall the scents of the forest and the feeling of running through the Forbidden Forest as a beast and not a man. He tried to hold onto the smell of the wolf he had followed, eyes seeing the outline of a massive stag gliding through the forest. The scent of a rat running underfoot, bounding with them as they past centaur and dark creatures unnamed.

He tried to recall hair like fire, the laughter of a brother, the snide remarks of a father. He grasped at the loud voice of a mother, and the preaching of blood purity. He pulled at the memories of a little baby boy cooing at him, little fingers swatting at his hand and the laughter of the stag and the amusement of the wolf as they watched. He tried to recall the warmth of the fire-hair's cooking. The scent of chocolate. The taste of sweets.

He tried to remember the darkness of the rat which lied, which betrayed, and hoped the wolf, ate the rat. He knew he killed someone, people without magic, but he couldn't find the murders in his mind despite how desperately he searched for it. There was no happiness in this place where the damned rasped their last breathes. There was no hope, no light, as the ice froze him from within, and there was no warmth to thaw him as his breath turned to ice. Where could happiness linger with _them _patrolling the grounds like Death on High? Drawing the ratted blankets around him, grey eyes closing as the depression of loneliness and helplessness, the touch of death and nightmares, settled over him as green light flashed through the backdrops of his mind.

* * *

Two wands; check.

Chalk; check.

Harry sat in the darkness of his room, the night nearing the peak. It was nearing midnight, and, the diagram drawn into the floor, the young boy hoped he had done this the way he was supposed to. Salazar was twisted around his wrist, tongue flicking against his wrist. A sense of unease, a spark of fear, churned in him as he added the last details to the odd circle Tom had him draw on the floor. Turning back to the journal, eyeing the picture his friend had drawn for him, he rechecked his work before nodding to himself. Drawing in a deep breath, calming his nerves, he reminded himself he would be fine. Tom wouldn't hurt him, even if he _was _going to let Salazar bite him. It wasn't like the pain Uncle Vernon inflicted on him, or the cold, indifferent feelings his Aunt and Cousin gave him.

With a sense of need, of startling hope, he carefully sat the diary in the center of the diagram. It was open, the pages having flipped themselves until the book was divided into two equal halves. Glancing out the window, seeing the dark, prowling beast outside, he swallowed. He didn't want that thing coming inside. It was evil. He didn't want to put the Malfoys in danger. He _liked _Draco. The boy was friendly, and didn't run away because he was cousins with Dudley.

_That's why we need the wands, _Tom had explained. _Their magic is stored in it, and, if it is part of the ritual, their magic will provide grounding for ours. The wards surrounding the house will register the ritual as being done with their permission. They'll be none the wiser._

Harry hoped as much. As he stood, idly stroking Salazar, he heard the snake hiss, _"Relax, hatchling. This one will make sure you, and the odd-shaped-tree, will be safe. This one knows what it is doing."_

Harry absently nodded in agreement, though he silently questioned why Salazar kept referring to Tom's journal as an oddly shaped plan. Shaking his head, Harry exposed his wrist to the serpent, watching the dark hues of the scales gleam in the wizarding lights, before he saw the fangs when Salazar opened his mouth. The last time Salazar had bit him was months ago, when he ran away, to numb the pain in his leg. A second time, he mused, couldn't be that bad. Turning his gaze away, biting his lip, he held his breath.

The gentle scrape of fangs against skin.

A sharp, blazing pain.

Red against white.

_Magic._

* * *

There were few things Julian Figg feared; Remus Lupin was one of them.

He had not expected the werewolf to make an appearance in his apartment at such ungodly hours, and he wasn't expecting to see those cold, amber eyes staring him down with the intent of an angry, territorial predator. Swallowing, his groceries clutched in his arms, he eyed the wolf standing in the shadows and carefully put his purchases on the counter before carefully putting his hands up were the wolf could see him, voice low as he said, "L-Lupin, what a s-s-surprise to find you h-here!"

A low, rumbling growl was his only reply. _Okay, I'm shutting up._

"A surprise indeed, Figg." Lupin's voice was still the same, soft tenor he had grown accustomed to over the years. The werewolf was young looking, he was _always _young looking. No more than twenty-five, he would venture to guess. Eternally young. Eternally powerful. Eternally deadly. Julian swallowed as the wolf stepped out of the shadows, pants hanging low on his hips and eyes near mad. "There are a few things, Figg, I want to know. A few things you _will _tell me."

"Lupin, you know I'll tell you anything. But, um, aren't you supposed to be...well, a _wolf?" _It was the full-moon, and it gleamed in mocking laughter through the window behind the werewolf. Full and enchanting, that moon. It fell upon Lupin's body, the light highlighting those amber eyes as they glowed in the dark and observed his every movement. Yet, Lupin _wasn't _turned. He _wasn't _a hulking, raving beast ready to tear his throat out. And, for some reason, that made it _worse _in the light of reason. Lupin was closer, voice still unnaturally soft as he said, "Did you know, Figg, that the beast in me is capable of many things? The rage, Figg, it's the _rage _which is keeping it back. A demand for the truth, the knowing between pack and blood. The wolf isn't happy, Figg."

_Oh sweet Merlin! _Julian cast his gaze towards the door, and then a hand was closing around his throat. Lips brushed against his ear as the wolf snarled, "Tell me, _Julian, _how was it that you _missed _such obvious signs when you work with children like that every day?"

It was like his heart was about to stop when those eyes saw through him every time.


	16. Chains Broken

**Author's Note**: This is the sixteenth installment of _'When Darkness Sings._'

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It was like drowning.

He could feel the world pressing upon him, sharp and relentless. Decades of _nothingness _left him numb, unable to feel. Lost to the world. Then there was a change, subtle and childlike, when a flowing rush of color came to his bland imprisonment. Barely five, a nameless child had drawn in color, nothing more than shapes and doodles. It was something, better than nothing, and placed into an object he had designed, once upon a time, for something greater. Odd drawings of stick figures and line-drawn houses were major, but he also witnessed images of trees, roughly drawn, and objects one would find around a muggle home. Despite his gentle urges, any questions he presented went unanswered. He suspected the child could not read.

Then, one day, there were words. Poorly put together, they had been, but he had been unable to resist the urge to correct the child. Teaching, it was something he liked to do. He hoped that, when he graduated, Dippet would allow him to take the position of Defense. Cursed as it may be, he knew he was the one the spot was waiting for. Dark Arts called to him, and who better to teach the young and fix their ignorance? Perhaps this small child, so young and unaware of the power in his or her hand, could be his first student. A boy. Harry.

Years passed uneventfully, and, in the time he learned about the child, the more his hatred for muggles grew.

* * *

Rage. Never had it been so great.

Remus staggered against the wall, burn marks searing his chest and arms, but he did not feel the pain. He felt the rage, the beast snarling in the back of his mind, and the _rage. _Never had it been so great that he could not transform; never had the wolf wanted to put another in their place to the extent that _turning _them would be a pity because then, he breathed raggedly, because _then _they would be like him and his wolf. The beast did not want that. No wolf would endanger its pack; anyone who would do so, they deserved to suffer.

As he leaned against the wall and eyed the trashed home, Remus could feel a sense of satisfaction all his own welling in his chest. Amber eyes slowly drifted towards the bloodied Figg, the man's arm twisted at an unnatural angle, but he could not bring himself to regret his actions. Figg was oddly silent, but Remus could hear his heart beating. He could smell the blood pumping through the body, and the multitude of spells he had cast earlier would prevent him from dying. As he leaned into the wall panting, the wolf right beneath his skin, he wondered if he would change. It was hours past the initial time, but, as he rested, he idly wondered when he and his wolf had begun seeing things on mutual ground.

He was not expecting, however, to hear an amused laugh in the doorway. He was not expecting the wolf in him to shudder, the sensation a strange but pleasant mix of pleasure and happiness. He could smell a scent in the air, a familiar one, but he couldn't place where he knew it from. All his pack, they were gone.

_Because of Dumbledore_, the wolf snarl. Remus disagreed, his own thoughts whirling around in his head as he turned to face the intruder: _They are gone because we are not strong enough._

And, as he turned, the rage returned. His senses sharped, and he saw red.

"Good seeing ya, pup."

_"Greyback..."_

* * *

It was like drowning. And then, as if answered by Morgana herself, his head was above the water.

He could _feel _magic in the air, something precious and gentle and _there, _as he collapsed onto his hands and knees. He felt his arms shaking, his robes falling around him like the day he had first found himself _inside _his prison. His legs felt weak, unable to hold his weight, and he felt himself breathing in actual air for the first time in countless years.

It was dark, a type of inky blackness he was unfamiliar with. He blinked, violet-red eyes slowly rising to scan the foot of a bed he could see and a small huddled form staring at him in open shock. Questions circled in his head, confusion boiling on the edge. The ritual, he had read it from front to back. He had spent years looking over it; six long years, and _something _had interfered. Did he overlook something vital? No. He wouldn't overlook anything that would put a thorn in his plans, in his agenda. As he slowly gathered himself, the pieces fell together.

It was the blood. It was a small portion, but the _venom _in it, the _magic,_ pooled through his skin and veins. Powerful magic that sang in harmony to his.

It flowed in the wards he could feel outside the house, added on as a safety precaution. Malfoy would not chance the safety of a child in his care.

As he knelt on the ground, head bow, only one thing was truly registered in his mind:

Freedom; he was _free._

* * *

_"Itty, bitty, little kitty..."_

The woman curled up on her side, hair wrapped around her as she traced a bloody picture on the wall. Her nails were gone, but that was okay. She had the kitty now, and it was here to stay. She giggled, and rolled over onto her hands and knees. She could feel the dark things sapping her strength, taking what didn't belong to them. It was _her _happy memories. It was _her _happy place they were stealing. Laughing, she stumbled to her feet and swayed across the cage.

"Where's my puppy?" She cooed into the air, and she sank against the bars as she ran her hands down the metal pole detaining her. She slumped into the bars, uncaring of how she exposed herself as she sang, "Puppy, fluffy puppy, _master's _coming home."

Maniacal laughter danced through the darkness, and the gliding shadows took no notice.

* * *

_"Does it speak hatchling?" _Blinking, twisting, he turned around to face the speaker. He spotted the Noctis first, the eyes glowing in the dark, and then he felt the pages of his journal under his hand as he sat back on his haunches. Swallowing, blinking, he let his gaze move past the snake to the small child holding it. A boy he had been aware of some odd months ago, in a bank full of goblins, but those memories were distorted. Blurred. Again, he heard the snake speak, _"Shall this one return the wands, hatchling?"_

_"You shall not," _The words slipped past his lips in a light, humming tenor. The snake's gaze snapped to him, its head rearing upwards as a sharp hiss sounded in the darkness as it spat, _"This one shall protect none other than the hatchling, Speaker. This one has already chosen!"_

He stared at the snake, something akin to amusement dancing in the depths of his mind, as he carefully hissed, _"I desire not you as a familiar, but a protector of something dear to us both, Salazar."_

The Noctis hissed once, and then he saw a movement as the boy rose on trembling, unsteady legs. His arms reached out unthinkingly, catching the small form as it stumbled, and a sharp breath slipped past his lips when young Hadrian settled into his arms. Eight years old, this child, young and uncertain in a world strange, a boy who shed blood willingly to bring him life, to have him reborn, while the magic of a follower granted him permission unknowingly. A slow, cruel smile crept across his lips as this thought registered in his mind. He knew who put his child into this situation. The man who had placed him in a home with people who could not, would not, accept him for the gifts he had.

He had been gone for a long while, and, while he was still weak, that accursed journal was now unable to contain him. Picking it up off the floor, the cover plain and harmless looking, he could not help but question a thought that turned in the depths of his mind. The ritual had been specific. He knew enough from the things Hadrian told him, about the war where he became Voldemort and the Boy-Who-Lived, to know he had become powerful. Fear and awed for the strength of his bloodline despite the taint harbored on one side of it. It was direct with what he would need: the magic of a follower, the blood of an enemy, past or current, and the last held two different parts which could be chosen between - the bones of his father, or a body held out of sight, unknown and forgotten. His dairy had been just that. A container unknown.

Yet it said it would take more than one bloodletting before the ritual was complete. The third would provide the body.

What had caused the change? Where had it come from? And, furthermore, how would it complicate the events already in motion?

* * *

"No, we _haven't _seen him for the last two months."

Albus Dumbledore pulled at his beard, voice light as he said, "Nearing three, Mrs. Dursley. Next week marks the date he first left home."

His tucked his hat under his arm, the bright pink hues a pleasant shade. He took the tea she offered, though he found it peculiar that the boy was glaring at him. It was odd, really, in the way the lad refused to meet his eyes. Perhaps he just didn't like strangers, as no child should, but not once had the boy made any motion to look him in the eye when they exchanged words. Most odd indeed.

His gaze shifted back to Petunia as she sipped on her tea, her voice light as she asked, "Have you found where he is staying?"

"I have, but certain measures are standing in the way." Albus sat his cup on his lap, and he met the woman's eye as he said, "A very powerful, pureblooded family found him in Diagon Alley. The Malfoys, as it stands. They are a well-off family, Dark as the sun is light. The Malfoys' son had been with him beforehand, and they had been chased down by someone. We have yet to figure out whom, but, as it stands, Mr. Malfoy is what stands in the way."

"How…" Mrs. Dursley whispered eyes wide as she asked again, "How can he stand in the way when he has no claim to the boy?"

"Mrs. Dursley, you must understand that things do not work the same way in our world as it does in yours." Albus sipped at the tea, and then he sat the cup on the table as he continued, "From the sounds of it, he and his wife found some rather incriminating signs of neglect on the child, which would put us both in a rather nasty light. I am currently working on getting a private investigator into the matter so it will be settled discreetly, and with hope, young Hadrian should be back in your loving home in a month. Two at the most, I suspect."

He could feel her thoughts brushing across his mind as he brushed through them, but a great deal was shielded. Pulling out, a sense of surprise circling in him, he wondered where she learned to do such a thing. How would she know to clear her mind in the presence of a wizard? Looking over at her son, he felt a light frown pulling at his lips. How would her son know to avoid eye contact with someone with magic?

"I think it would be best if I depart," Albus mused as he stood, voice airy as he added, "I understand your husband is uncomfortable around my kind, so if all is well, I would rather avoid making any unpleasant greetings."

Petunia Dursley guided him to the door, and as she bid him a good day, he felt her mind easing as he mused to himself that it was, indeed, best to keep her from Hogwarts. Someone with as much potential as Lily could not have been, at any cost, diminished by someone who could contend. He had been right all those years ago. Lily could not, under any circumstance, be swayed to the _wrong _side.

As he gathered his magic around himself, he merely had to remind himself that, regardless of his actions, all he did was for the Greater Good.

* * *

Lucius had taken to watching young Hadrian whenever he was given the opportunity. He keyed his wards in on the boy, and, mere hours after one in the morning, it was those wards which pulled him from his slumber. He was not expecting to see Dobby standing next to his bed with a rather alarmed look in those large eyes. Sitting up, hair falling around him, Lucius eyed his sleeping wife, the pale expanse of her back bared to his sight, before standing. Tonight he would let her sleep.

"What is it?" He snapped as he stalked out of the room, and the elf murmured, "A visitor, sirs. Came out of air, in Master Hadrian sir's room. Dobby came to get the Lord Master, sirs, as fasts as I is able."

"A visitor?" Lucius glanced at the elf. Dobby nodded as he said, "A visitor, sirs. Wards were good to him, sirs, but improper to enter sirs home without permission."

He roared around the corner, eyes narrowed, and swung open the doors to his newest charge's room. He paused in the doorway, fingers tightening around the cane in his hand, one missing its wand, as he eyed the elder teenager propped against the headboard in Potter's bed. The child in question was curled up against the older boy, asleep and peaceful, and it took only a moment before Lucius noticed the Noctis wrapped around Hadrian's shoulders with the spider in the boy's lap. He eyed the second creature with something akin to disgust.

He stepped a foot deeper into the room, and recoiled when a large shape lashed out at him from the ground. His back hit the wall as he eyed the snake on the ground, one which was _not _the Noctis young Hadrian kept with him. Its form and color was impossible to mistake, and his gaze slowly rose to the teenager in the bed watching with impassive, glowing eyes of violet-red.

Eyes which were familiar even if the body was not.

"My Lord?"


	17. Questionable Circumstances

**Author's Note**: This is the seventeenth installment of _'When Darkness Sings._'

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Lucius stared.

A part of him knew this was impossible. The teenager sitting in the bed, a wand in hand, was in his late teens. Old enough to be out of Hogwarts, but the uniform he wore was telling. A Slytherin. He was wearing the robes, the tie loose around his neck, just like he got home for break, but Lucius would never mistake those eyes. He could never forget the magic in the room, dark and sinful, as it brushed against his senses. The teen, however, looked nothing like the deranged Dark Lord he had served before Potter had destroyed him in his infancy. This young man, his eyes were sharp, calculating, with a keen intelligence lurking in their depths. With his Master, those eyes would hold only madness. As if aware of his thoughts, the teen, his features were sharp and his hair dark, smiled a slow and dark smile.

Was _this _what the Dark Lord had once looked like? When those eyes did not waver, Lucius tightened his grip on his staff. He knew better than to speak out of turn.

"You are not like Abraxas." The teen ran a hand down Hadrian's back, the child sighing in his sleep, and his gaze shifted towards the window. This teenager seemed lost in thought, lost in his memories, as he looked him over, and Lucius forced himself not to move under that stare. "My apologies for arriving without warning, Lucius. There are times when other things demand my attention, and this child is one of them. He let me in."

"Let you in," Lucius echoed, and his gaze shifted across the room before he said, "If I may be so bold, my lord, but how did Nagini find herself in my home?"

"I summoned her." The teen answered lightly, and he motioned to the armchair next to the bed. "I suppose you have questions, and, giving my unannounced presence, it would be unbecoming of me if I do not indulge _some_ of your inquiries."

Lucius lowered himself into his seat, and eyed the serpent-shaped wand in the young Dark Lord's grasp. His wand. The young Master smiled, and twirled it in his fingers before tapping it against his thigh. Swallowing, Lucius asked, "You are Voldemort, but yet you are not. You died, but yet you are now alive. I am at a loss of words, my lord. Perhaps I might ask who you are, and how you came back to your loyal follower?"

The red-eyed teen stroked the child's hair as he said, "My ward knows me as Tom. I am Slytherin's Heir, and I am your Master. What else is there to know in regards of who I am? As to how I came back? That's only on a need-to-know basis, and there are none who are privy to that."

* * *

It was a dream.

It was a dream, Harry told himself as he stirred in bed. He buried his face in his pillow, sighing in sweet contentment as it breathed under him, and nuzzled closer as it held him close. He could hear snippets of conversation, but the words were lost to him within moments. It was an odd feeling, this drifting blissfulness, and he never wanted it to end. He remembered being lifted, and then being carried through the house.

When a hand carded through his hair, fingers burrowing into the untamed mess, he could not help the humming purr that slipped out of him as his eyes blearily opened to take in his surroundings. The first thing he noticed was the hearth, and the flameproof bookcase around it that belonged to Mr. Malfoy's big library-office thingy. He pulled at the word in his head, trying to recall it, when his pillow murmured, "Office, child. We are in Lucius's office."

A moment passed in confused silence, and then he slowly sat up. He stared up into those eyes, and gently reached out to touch the cheek of the man whose lap he was sitting in. A hand caught his as Tom murmured, "There is much to discuss, Harry. Lucius, as you were saying?"

Harry turned around, peering over his shoulder at the man sitting across from Tom, and smiled. Lucius inclined his head to him, and then said, "Good morning, Hadrian. I hope you slept well. As I was saying, my Lord, many things have changed since you have last been in this world."

Blinking, Harry tugged on Tom's sleeve, the robe black with silver lining, and signed, _'What does he mean?'_

"That is something else I will need to take care of," Tom mused, and he twirled a strand of black hair around his finger as he continued, "That will be one of the first things I will focus on. We may be able to restore some of your voice, if not all of it. It should not be too difficult."

Harry relaxed as his friend continued petting him, and listened with rapt attention when Tom asked a moment later, "Do you remember what I told you about my soul?"

Harry nodded, and his gaze shifted back to Mr. Malfoy as he sat in his recliner, his gaze interested, as Tom continued, "It would seem that I had split it again. I had known it was possible, that the remaining half of my soul that was not safeguarded, might continue where I had left off. From what I understand, I misplaced your position in this entire game of ours."

"My Lord," Lucius spoke, hesitating a moment before Tom waved him on, "My Lord, do you think it wise to let young Hadrian grasp the entirety of what has happened between you two? What a part of your soul has done?"

"He is bound to learn of it eventually, and I would rather it be from my mouth than that of someone else." Harry looked between the two adults, a frown marring his features, and then he looked at Tom with wide eyes as he asked, _'What do you mean?'_

A pop sounded next to them, and a house elf happily handed him food and hot chocolate before registering he wasn't alone. The elf stilled, and slowly looked at the two men, its large gaze lingering on Tom. Before the elf could move, Lucius said, "All is well. Your orders were to attend to Hadrian's habits as long as he stays here. You have done that, and will not be punished."

Harry smiled at the elf, patted it on the head, and nestled into Tom's chest as he brought his drink to his mouth. He liked chocolate. He wondered if Dudley was eating it a lot, or if his auntie was being strict. As he sat there, curled in his King's grasp, Tom continued, "Your parents, James and Lily, met a dark end in the last war that struck the Wizarding World. There is much I will need to see to, but I understand the heart of the problems that occurred."

Harry sat his cup down, and he said, _'You did it, didn't_ _you?'_

Tom raised a dark brow in question, and Harry frowned. He touched his throat, wishing he had his own voice as he continued, _'Vernon told me dad and mum died in a car crash, but you told me it was impossible. It would take something more than a car crash to kill one of our kind. The other part of you, the one that didn't find itself in a diary, killed them...'_

A hand carded through his hair, and then Harry found his head tucked against his friend. He heard the heart beating under his ear, steady and firm. He heard Lucius speaking to Tom, asking him what he had said, and his friend explaining in low tones. The door opened, and then he heard Draco's questioning tone as he asked after the man in the room. At one point, Narcissa swept into the room with a few words for her husband and a respectful bow to Tom. Harry watched these exchanges with interest, and he listened when Tom told him about why his parents had died.

Harry found it hard to believe, and he expressed that as loudly as he could. Tom had caught his hands, had pulled them down in his lap, with an amused gleam in his eyes as he said, "I never said the remaining part of myself was sane. From what I have managed to learn about his adventures from Lucius, he was rather _insane _before he went after you."

Voldemort, Lucius had called him. The other Tom. As he compared the two of them, he finally asked, _'But the other you is gone now that you're here, right? He can't hurt me.'_

Tom's eyes narrowed, his expression thoughtful. Harry could feel the magic in the air, feel it caressing his skin, as Tom finally said, "This I cannot answer with certainty. A fragment of my soul was locked in my diary. However, there is also the chance that the other Horcruxes are similar. They should not be as strong due to the fact that half my soul found its way into the diary, but dangerous nonetheless."

A moment of silence. Harry cocked his head to the side, his gaze intent, as Tom spoke again, "The only way to be sure is for the rest of my soul to be reclaimed and placed in their proper place. I may keep one of them to ensure my immortality. The one which we must be wary of is the one that targeted you. It may be drifting, aware but unable to act."

Harry tilted his head to the side, and smiled. Tom watched him, eyes dark and intense, as he hopped down. He turned to face him, leaned in and hugged him as much as he was able, and darted out of the room in pursuit of his playmate. He stopped first in his own room, gathering a much larger Salazar and wrapping him around his thin shoulders, and pausing to look at his friend on the table. The spider scuttled forward, and Harry shopped her up with a wide grin on his face. He'd need to find her a name.

Leaving his room, his gaze scanning the hallways, he was determined to hunt down Draco for a game of chase.

* * *

Severus was not a man who liked to be disturbed, least of all in the middle of class, but some things were impossible to avoid.

As he locked the potions lab behind himself, he felt the telling tick beneath his brow. His arm hummed with latent magic, the Mark heating up, and knew that this was what Dumbledore wished to discuss with the staff. How could he not when the Dark Lord's magic was reconnecting to his own? He could feel the Dark Lord's magic, feel it gathering in his Mark as surely as it was gathering in all of his followers. Would he summon him? What would the Dark Lord do, and how, exactly, had returned to the living after death had claimed him seven years prior? As he swept outside into the cold, December weather, he felt questions stirring in his mind. Questions he had not dared entertain since Lily's death. Could he dare take her child into his care if Voldemort was back? His own position in the upcoming struggle was cemented, and taking care of the child one of his masters wished dead? Yet, the lingering truth was unmistakable.

The magic that mingled with his, wrapping around it, was different. It was stronger, far stronger, and it was steady. It didn't flux in his veins, and it didn't feel like a tainted miasma strapping down his magic. As he tucked his arms into his sleeves, he felt it _stroke _his magic, as if getting a feeling for it and a name, before gently encouraging it to intertwine. To blend. Severus had no desire to do so, not until he knew why the change had come about and if it was a facade to something far more sinister. Trusting the Dark Lord, the Potion Master mused as he swept into Hogwarts, was the same as trusting a venomous snake not to bite when you invaded its territory without question to one's safety and sanity.

Yet the call of the magic was there, tempting him. As he brushed his way into the Headmaster's office, McGonagall at his side, he wondered how he would be able to describe such a change. How could he explain the Mark, and its painless awakening? Voldemort was an impatient man, and this gentle awakening was not something he would embrace. Stepping into the office, staying in the background, he watched as the others arrived. Dumbledore, sitting at his desk, kept his eye on him the entire time. Severus cared not for the observing look, the probing presence trying to gain access to his mind, nor the frustrated tilt to the old man's magic. Severus frowned. Something had happened.

As the last of them arrived in a flurry of red hair, Dumbledore spoke, "We have lost Remus. Alastor found Julian Figg, near death, in his apartment with a few choice spells preserving his life."

The old man closed his eyes, voice low as he added, "He saw Fenrir Greyback, and the two werewolves fought. It practically destroyed Julian's home, but his memories prove correct. Greyback overpowered Lupin, and vanished with him after beating him in combat."

"Oh, Merlin, Remus..." Molly had lowered herself into a chair, her hands clasped over her mouth in horror, as Alastor stepped into his room. The man's voice was thick, his eyes tired, as he spat, "More bad news, and that's pretty in comparison. There was a breakout in Azkaban. Bellatrix Lestrange and Sirius Black have escaped, and a hour later, the Lestrange brothers vanished from detainment."

Severus felt his skin crawl at that notion. He slowly turned his gaze on Dumbledore, and found those twinkling blue eyes watching him. He sighed, knowing the inevitable was coming, and spoke, "The Dark Mark is active,"

He paused, eyes narrowed, as he said, "However, it is not like before. See for yourself."

Severus bared his forearm, the mark black and dark. Several people hissed in surprise, and he felt McGonagall trace the outside of the mark with wide eyes as she whispered, "The tattoo has changed..."

The skull and snake was as prominent as ever, but the skull was in the center, and there were two snakes intertwining around it till they met at the end with one head on top of the other. Snape could not, for the life of him, understand _why _the accursed thing had changed. As he pulled his sleeve back down, he continued, "The magic behind it has changed. Voldemort has returned, but he is not the same."

"In what way is he different," Arthur spoke up, and Severus forced himself calm as the Dark Lord's magic pulsed under his skin in warning. He pressed his hand against it, wonder dancing through him, and spoke with care, "The Mark has not caused me any form of discomfort whereas, in the past, it would inflame when the Dark Lord focused his magic upon it."

It settled, and the warmth withdrew but a fraction remained. He folded his arms in his sleeves, his fingers idly pressing into it, as Dumbledore asked, "And what of the magic? You mentioned that has changed as well."

"As it did." Severus cursed the old man in his head as his hand wrapped around his forearm, glad for the sleeves to block it from view, as he deliberately lied to the man who has protected him, "This magic is weaker. It is gaining strength, but his return has cost him. It is likely the Lestranges' escaped when they noted their own Marks activating. As for Black, I cannot say."

Nor did he care.

* * *

Tom. What a bland name. He often preferred his middle name, Marvolo, compared to it.

As he leaned on the railing on the third floor balcony, watching the two boys playing in the snow, Tom questioned the events that led him to this vary moment. He was angry, his magic pulsing under his skin, that someone could even _think _of hurting something of his. Eyeing the black-haired boy in the yard, one which managed to get a direct hit at young Draco's face, he felt something stir within him. The boy was his, plain and simple, and he'd curse anyone stupid enough to try and take what belonged to him. In that way, he felt just as strongly for his loyal followers - Lucius and his family, the Lestrange family, and a few others who he had already came into contact with.

Pushing away from the railing, robes whirling around him, he turned his eye on the massive snake curled around the pillar as he hissed, _"Watch him, Nagini. Do not let the hatchling out of your sight." _

The massive constrictor, one which was filled with potent venom, hissed her affirmative before asking, _"Shall this one watch after Salazar as well?" _

Tom smirked. "That you shall. I do not think he is comfortable in such weather as of yet."

Malfoy Manor was much the same as he last recalled it. Abraxas had been a loyal friend, and it was a peculiar experience to be in his home with the man's son and grandchild. Fifty years was a long time. It was odd to be walking in this manor wearing the dark robes he wore all those years ago, left for him should he ever return, and well taken care of. He stopped within the building at the stairs, and watched as Narcissa, a Black by birth, let in a few of her friends who had brought their own children with them. A few stared openly at him, eyes curious, but were quickly scolded before they were ushered out into the backyard where the other two played.

Narcissa inclined her head in greeting before sweeping out of the room, and Lucius, who had joined him at the top of the steps, murmured, "Another will be here in a moment. Shall we wait for him in the study?"

"Another follower of mine," Tom mused as they made their way into the study, and he sat himself before the hearth with a warm glass of wine. He whirled the liquid in the cup, staring thoughtfully at the fire, before the door opened behind them. The newcomer's voice was low as he said, "You called for me, Lucius? Is Draco well?"

"He is fine, Severus." Lucius gestured for the man to sit with him, and Tom took in the man as he sat. Dark haired and dark eyed, flowing black robes - a Potion Master. He studied him heavily before he finally said, "Your mother, was she called Eileen?"

The man studied him in kind, and his answer floated between them as he said, "Eileen Prince, yes."

"I see," Tom eyed this man, one who shared a distant connection, as he said, "I knew your mother and her brother. They were friends of mine back when we attended Hogwarts together."

"Impossible," Severus's eyes were narrowed, and his voice low as he snapped, "You yourself are barely old enough to be out of school, let alone past your fifties. Who are you?"

"Severus," Lucius hissed, and Tom fully looked the Potion Master in the eye, his own gaze flashing red for a moment, as he answered, "I am over fifty, and I have been decommissioned for a great many years. During this time, much to my ire, a war has taken place without my orders. Allow me to introduce myself,"

Tom stood, handing his glass over to the house elf that appeared, before crossing the distance between himself and the sour looking man as he said, "I am Tom Marvolo Riddle, and I am the Heir of Slytherin. You need not worry about young Hadrian. I have no intention of harming him, nor will I allow anyone else to try his life."

He stepped away from the dark-eyed man, his own gaze narrowed as he said, "Which is why I am trying to reestablish my connection to those who my other half gathered to fight for him. This world is in discord, and I will see it turned right. Yet, I also need to know where your loyalties lie. Let it be known, Severus Snape, that I do not tolerate traitors. With that said, will you serve Dumbledore, or will you place yourself in my hands?"

"You are not Voldemort," The man said, and Tom smirked as he leaned forward.

"No, but I am something far more dangerous than that broken soul. I am half undivided, and the fragments of my soul call to me." As Severus opened his mouth to respond, as Lucius rose to speak to Narcissa and the women who had entered the room, a change came upon the manor. Tom felt the wards around the house quiver, straining, before tearing into countless pieces. The backlash of the power staggered them all, and his back hit the fireplace as an unearthly roar cut through the air. As he grasped the edge to keep himself up, his blood chilled. "It got through..."

"It?" Severus gasped, his arms shaking from where they grasped the arms of the chair. "What, exactly, is _'it?'" _

Before he could answer, a shrill scream tore through the air.

* * *

Pain, it blossomed through him.

He was lying on his side, the snow red, and he felt small hands shaking him as Draco's frantic voice weaved in and out of his hearing. A low, hissing snarl was coming closer, a cold shadow coiling around his insides, and he shuddered. He knew that feeling. It was impossible to forget. Slowly rising onto his hands and knees, arms trembling to hold him as red splattered the snow, Harry wondered how _it_ got through. His sight was blurry, his glasses missing, but he could see its dark shape lumbering forward with grave intent.

"Harry," He felt Draco trying to pull him up, but he pushed his friend away and pointed at the house. The boy stared at him, voice shaking as he said, "I am _not _going to leave you! Get up, Harry. Get up!"

He pushed Draco again, pointing. He looked into his friend's face, gesturing to the other children, and understanding dawned in the boy's eyes. A moment later, the small hands of Pansy were grasping his arm. Others joined hers. Four of them, Harry mused in his own mind, sitting huddled as a monster came closer. He could feel the magic of the adults closing in, but it would be one moment too late. Instead, he let his gaze shift across the backyard in search of anything that could help.

Maybe he could use some of his magic? He knew he couldn't attack the beast, but maybe, just maybe, he could ward it off long enough for Tom to reach them. He could hear other hissing sounds, and blinked when Nagini and Salazar were winding around him. Both were baring their fangs at the shadow being, and both were vowing they would have it convulse until death spared it. Despite their threats, it crept closer without slowing.

"Draco!" Narcissa's voice cut through the air moments before a spell was fire, and Harry saw it pass through the thing approaching as if the spell was nothing but empty air. Several followed, his eyes dark with the promise of pain as one, a bright green jet of light, slammed into the shadowy mass. The beast halted, its form pulsing, before the spell began to slowly sink into the creature. It staggered as he felt someone pulling him off the ground, and the scent of smoke and dark things curled around him as he felt Tom's magic curled protectively around him. He was herding the children towards the building just as the creature pulsed, its form slowly thickening, and Harry felt it lunge forward before seeing it.

He grasped Tom's shoulders, and held up a hand. He envisioned a wall of energy, of light, standing in its way. If it was a shadow, surely it would vanish if it came into contact with light, Harry reasoned with himself, and, as it came into contact, it was like a plane hitting a dividing line. The force threw Tom forwards, and Harry held on when his back hit the ground. Pain, Harry felt it. The thing was hurting, angry and snarling, before it turned and vanished. He felt its claws leave his mind, and he felt his body working double as they ran into the warmth of the manor.

"Potions, Severus!"

Harry caught Tom's hand as the man rose, his own voice rising with Lucius's. He tugged, coughing, and smiled when his friend sat by his side. Then Severus was forcing his mouth open, and shoving a drink down his throat. Harry swallowed, throat burning, before he felt the pain begin to subside and the lightheaded fog to lift. As he lied there, his mind a confused muddle, he felt the cool press of scales scraping against his skin before Nagini and Salazar coiled upon his body. As he felt darkness clawing at his mind, he tightened his grasp on Tom's hand.

_"Hurts," _His throat screamed in protest as Tom's magic wrapped around his neck, the dark press of it forcing the muscles within to loosen. Then he knew no more._  
_


	18. Tongue of a Serpent

**Author's Note**: We all know what chapter this is, so, really, what's the point of stating it? I think I'll just jump ahead, and get right into the story. However, I would like to thank all my lovely reviewers! You're words, and comments, and love, have pushed me forward to write more than I had thought I would in the first place. You all encourage me to keep writing, and, as this story continues to progress, I hope everyone continues to be entertained by what is coming.

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For a week, he did not rise. Severus ran his magic across the unconscious child bundled in the heavy blankets and quilts with a slight frown to his brow. There were many questions drifting through his mind, and nearly all of them had no answer. Under all circumstances, he mused silently to himself, the boy should be able to speak. There was no damage to his throat, nor his vocals, and yet...and yet _something _was interfering. He could feel a light, airy magic condense when he brushed his energy across the inner workings of Hadrian's throat. He could feel it flux, lash out, and settle when he withdrew. Only once had he encountered something of this magnitude, and the conclusions he was drawing was enough to make his magic rise in anger.

Someone had stolen the child's voice; the suspicions wrapped in his mind were impossible to shake off. Lily's words came back to him, relentless and sharp.

_'He's not who he use to be, Sev. You know that!' _Severus frowned, and ran another scan as he muttered, "When is anyone who they seem to be?"

_'Don't be like that,' _He nearly jumped at her ghostly whisper, and turned to eye the shifting shadows of the room. If he stayed still long enough, he swore he could smell the soft scent of paper and hot-chocolate in the air. If he listened, if he strained his senses, he felt he could hear her tinkling laughter and the soft press of her hands running down his arms. Swallowing, he turned his gaze back to Hadrian. Her son. _'People aren't simple, Sev. Tuney isn't simple. Dumbledore said I was muggleborn, but, sometimes, I swore Tuney could calm me down with a glance. She made you angry, remember? With only a taunt that we have heard a hundred times. Words Hadrian has heard a hundred times.'_

He remembered that. Petunia was like a magnet pulling and pushing at their emotions. Confrontations ended when she was fed up with them, but a slight conflict between two people could turn deadly in a moment's notice when she was in the room. Especially when she was angry. He had seen how she and Lily had interacted, how their personalities and talents balanced each other. Tuney had loved her sister. She didn't show it, but Severus remembered the threat the older woman had dumped onto his lap during his fifth year, and Lily's fourth. _'Hurt her, Snape, and I swear by the magic you cherish that I will skin you alive. Hurt her, and you will pay.'_

Her threat had played out. He remembered Lily's death, and the pain which slammed into him. He remembered seeing Petunia Dursley nee' Evans during the funeral, and how she had struck him across the face. It was the last time he had seen the strong-willed woman, but that day, it had been _that day, _that Albus Dumbledore had decided that Hadrian Potter would go into his aunt's custody despite Lily's will stating otherwise. He remembered how the world felt so hollow that moment.

_Could Petunia have actually been...could she have been..._Severus ran his hand through his hair, the ink black strands falling over long fingers as he felt a deep hollow ache pulse in his chest. He felt a soft, warm breeze brush past him before a part of the bed sunk with the imprint of a person. The room was warm, but a soft, cooled breeze wrapped around his hand. Severus stared, both at that spot on the bed, at the chilled flesh of his left hand. His other hand rested on the child's as a soft, ghost-like voice whispered in the stillness of the room, _'When will things change? When will the lies be brought to light?'_

* * *

The wall crumbled.

Magic lashed out, and the deep snarls of a beast within him echoed in response. Never had someone submitted him in such a manner, Remus hissed to himself as he punched a hole into the wall. Never had his wolf responded with such passion to the presence of another werewolf. The few times he had been around his own kind, he remembered how his blood boiled in anger that another might try to force him into a lesser position or into a pack when his own was falling apart. His gaze shifted towards the werewolf in the room, and his lips curled back in a snarl as Greyback watched with him with dark, telling eyes.

_Alpha, _the wolf inside of him would growl.

_Bastard, _Remus would snap in response.

Extracting his fist from the stones, ignoring the pangs of pain, he said, "Why am I here, Greyback? What do you want?"

Fenrir Greyback moved away from the wall across from him, a smirk on his face, but said nothing. He circled the edge of the room, and those golden eyes watched him with keen interest. Swallowing, shoulders tense, Remus slowly moved to keep the man in his sight. Greyback cocked his head to the side, and his smirk slide free as he bared his left forearm. On it, the Dark Mark stared back at him. A Mark that has changed.

"The Dark Lord has an interest in you, Remus." The smaller male bared his teeth at the advancing werewolf, and Greyback chuckled. "Trust me, pup, when I say that ignoring a summons is bad for your health. As it stands, do you not long to see _your _pup?"

"Hadrian," Remus's muscles went lax as he drew the meaning into his mind. The face of an infant jumped into his mind, and it twisted into the large, questioning look of an innocent child being hunted by a _demon _of some sort. Hunted by the darkest of magic, of things that should never be awakened. "Voldemort has Hadrian?"

* * *

_'Magic runs a course through the bloodlines in a way I had never understood until I embraced my own power.'_

Dudley leaned into his seat, his arm throbbing with pain. He could hear his mum and dad yelling at each other downstairs, and, clutching the journal in his arms, he knew, he _knew, _he would do anything to protect the last memory of his aunt. Lily and Petunia Evans, and Hadrian, were his _only _family. His mother's sister. Glancing at the bruise blossoming across his arm, the telling proof of his father's anger, he felt he stomach churn in protest. How could his father be so cold? Weren't they supposed to be a family? Swallowing, he returned his gaze to the book; his mother's instructions were clear in his mind.

_'Tuney isn't as 'non-magical' as I had thought. She has all the signs of an old bloodline. I haven't seen many signs of powerful magic, not like the other students in Hogwarts, but she shows signs of other things. She's an empath, I think. Empathy is a rare trait, and one that can only be passed down through a direct bloodline.' _Dudley frowned. He winced when he heard glass shatter from somewhere downstairs, and stroked the pages of the book as he said, his voice wavering, "There's a way for me to help. There has to be. Just show me how."

The journal, like it always had, answered when he turned the page. His aunt's writing was clear, and the warning on it was one he had read more than once before. _'I do not trust Dumbledore. He has good intentions, but he is too willing to sacrifice the innocent for the "Greater Good." Do not trust him. I do not know who may be reading this. If it's my dear older sister, my son, or a distant relative of either line, know that Light does not always mean Good as Dark does not always mean Evil. Nothing is as it ever seems, Sev had told me. I know, should anything happen, I know he will help.'_

Sev, Dudley mused. Swallowing, he pulled out the picture in the back of the journal. A picture of a young woman with flaming red-hair and enchanting green eyes standing next to a dark-haired man with equally dark eyes. One was smiling, and the other had the hint of a smirk on his face. Tracing the woman's face, eyeing how her arms were wrapped around the man's waist, he read, _'Lily Evans and Severus Snape - 5th Year, Hogsmeade.'_

He had a name for the man, but now he had to figure out how to get his attention. Before it was too late.

* * *

He was floating in darkness.

_'Shard,' _Darkness whispered in his ear. _'__Do not fear, Shard.'_

Hadrian twisted, gaze searching as the darkness warped into something he thought as a black-and-white picture, and he found himself standing on a hard, stone floor as a warm wind stirred his hair. From above, he heard the sound of wings. Looking up, he saw two black ravens circling before they swooped down to land on his shoulders. Black feathers brushed against his cheek, he heard heard the whisper of conversation, of words and secrets, as the world around him began to bleed with colors. As he followed the street set before him, he heard them whisper, _'The Undreaming, Shard. The Undreaming is coming. It has awakened. It is coming. It is here.'_

They flew off his shoulders, and he chased after them after Darkness whispered in his ear, _'__It is time to awaken, Shard.'_

It felt as if he was plunging into icy water, and he was struggling to rise. He felt something holding his shoulders down, and, as his head rose above the water, he heard someone screaming. His first thought was that someone or something was hurting Draco, though he could not understand why. His friend was innocent and nice. Why would anyone hurt him? Then he felt hands on his shoulders, and a voice above him as he thrashed in a soft, warm bed. He could hear someone calling out for assistance, and then someone _else _was holding onto him. In the dark shadows of his dreams, and in the lightness of his waking mind, he saw something. It was monstrous in size, filled with black hate and pain, and it lunged forward with a mouth full of despair.

Hadrian's eyes flew open, and he screamed.

He caught hold of the closest thing, and burrowed close as his throat constricted and he was left gasping for breath. Even still, he screamed. It was like his vocal-cords were on fire, that someone was _hurting _him, and he could feel tears pricking at his eyes as a multitude of voices assaulted his senses. He felt something wrap around his arm, the press of cool scales, and pulled his arm to his chest to keep Salazar close to his chest. He didn't want his familiar to get hurt. He knew the serpent was trying to speak, but the words broke apart the moment they came to him.

Then he felt something. It was dark, but it wasn't smothering. He felt it run down his back with a caress, and then thread into his hair. This someone didn't speak, but he turned his body in their direction. Crawling into their arms, nuzzling his face into a solid chest, he felt his screams die as he shook from the aftermath of the pain. As he rested, he felt a small hand clasp his, and he peeled his eyes open to see the concerned, grey eyes of Draco. Behind him stood Lucius and Narcissa, who had her hand to her mouth, and he turned his gaze to the two holding him.

_"King," _The word passed as a hiss, and he burrowed closer as the whisper was responded to with the tightening of his dearest friend's hold. _"Friend. My friend..."_

He saw the slight widening of Snape's eyes, and then the man was gently touching his throat. He felt the magic press against his throat, and he hummed in response. It felt nice. Then he heard the Potion Master murmur to Tom, "My Lord, Hadrian's throat...I felt something in my scan earlier. Light Magic is blocking his vocal capacity, but yet he can...he can still..."

"The tongue of a snake differs from that of a man," Tom murmured from above him, and Hadrian felt his eyes closing as his friend murmured, "I think the outbreak of the magic from earlier, from _it's _appearance, countered the one cast on him. He's been Obliviated, by Figg I think, shy of two years ago."

As Harry pressed as close as he was able, he smiled lazily. Spring was coming, the winter close to ending. In seven months, he would turn nine. As he felt sleep coming to grasp him once again, he wondered if he would still be with the Malfoy's when that day came. As he drifted, he felt it would be a wondrous present to be with Tom and the Malfoys. Maybe even the other children would be there.

"Sleep, my child." Tom murmured above him, and, curled up in his friend's lap, he let the soothing call of dreams pull him under.

* * *

Pain.

So much pain. It was like the light which burned through it. It was like the hollow hunger grasping it with claws of steel. Steel. A human word. A mortal word. In the shadows of the magical world, the wraith curled upon itself as the steps of another came closer. It bared its fangs, one injured paw tucked under its quivering mass. It smelt twisted and tainted. It was Black warped. It was not the comforting press of pure Black. As the person closed in, the wraith smelt something else in the air. He could see a blob of purple in the air, and the shaky form. Expanding its senses, it felt the taint was not the human, but a fragment of what resided underneath. Something dark. Something broken.

Hackles rising, a deep snarl echoed in the deeps of the cave as the ocean waves beat upon its resting ground.


	19. To Protect Always

**Author's Note**: I absolutely enjoy all the reviews I have been getting - between this one and 'Stormborn,' a Hermione/Tom story I thought I would try my hand at, I couldn't be any more happy than I am now. However, when I was looking back over this chapter after I posted it...I realized I forgot this note. I was horrified with myself. I had been so caught up in the chapter than I _forgot to write this part. _Honestly, what's wrong with me? Well...at least most people don't read this. However, there is a mention to MC Ecsher's drawing "Relativity" in this chapter. For those who are not aware of this painting, I would recommend looking it up. It helps a great deal with the visual, and makes it plain hysterical once visualizing the scene it gets mentioned in.

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_I'm a snake. I'm a slithering snake._

Harry danced through the halls, steps light and gentle, as the thoughts danced through his mind. He felt Tom following, the elder's magic a heavy layer of dark satin brushing across his senses, and, further in, he felt Lucius and Narcissa flowing from one room into another. It was a game, he knew, and it was one he felt giddy over. The others rarely played with them. Glancing at Draco, emerald eyes glowing in his face, he smiled. The taller blond grinned in return, grey eyes flashing as he motioned to a hallway on the left.

"My grandfather built that part of the house," Draco murmured as they swept into the room, his voice light as he added, "I think father and mother, and Lord Riddle, will have a hard time finding us in the maze. It constantly changes, so not even father will be able to find the route the first time in."

Harry felt feather-light with excitement. He captured Draco's hand in his, and, as they neared the yawning maw of shadows, he felt a presence within it reaching out to prob at his being. A sibilant hissed slipped past his lips as he said, _"We play a game. Hide us?"_

Salazar, wound around his shoulders, lifted his head and flicked his cheek with his tongue. Harry giggled, and Draco, jogging to keep up, snickered. The maze itself slowly crept from the shadows, though Harry also knew that his eyes were adjusting as he came closer to it. The dark stones twisted, forming a vine-like arch high above their head, and the stone extended across the hallway. It was the entrance, he knew, but he couldn't help but cast a quick look at the blond standing next to him.

"We will be fine." Draco said, and, tugging at his hand, dragged Harry through the mouth. On his shoulder, Salazar hissed, _"The Book-Now-Legs is coming, hatchling. The stiff one is with him, and the lady as well. Turn left."_

Harry pointed out the direction, and Draco nodded. They ran into the shadows, the maze winding around them, and different paths closing as others ended. It was an adventure, he decided, and he was content to continue playing with Draco while their family pursued them in their game. Idly, he wondered how long before one of the adults found, and caught, them. He hoped Nessie, his newest friend, would be able to detain them with her webs. He had seen how Severus had blinked in surprise weeks ago when she spun it around his bed, determined, in hopes of keeping everyone else out. He was touched at her thoughtfulness, and he greatly missed the small, skitter spiders in Privet Drive.

The anticipation brought a smile to his face. They ran through the maze, free and wild, as his dreams whirled around in the backdrops of his mind like images being reflected off a broken mirror. As they paused, the small area around them closing and then opening up into eight paths, he felt ghostly feathers brush against his cheek as a crow whispered in his ear, _"The Undreaming is coming, little Shard. It is coming. It is searching. It is hunting. The Undreaming is coming." _

Harry did not know what this _undreaming _was, but he felt a small giggle rise as Draco dragged him down one twisting path.

Whatever it was, it could wait. More important things were at hand.

* * *

Pain had been a constant companion.

Julian Figg sat at a table within the fortress that was Hogwarts, in a quest suite far out of the standard path of the children, but he felt stir-crazy as he picked at his food. He wondered if he had the moon madness. He asked himself if he had the curse of the wolf, if the restlessness was due to the sharp pangs of acute agony making itself known from time-to-time.

He could still feel Lupin's fangs sinking into his flesh. He could still feel the powerful arm hurling him across the room, lifting him up and tossing him aside like he weighed no more than a newborn babe. He could still visualize how Greyback appeared, and how he had wrestled the enraged wolf to the ground as he curled upon himself below them. He could still hear their snarling howls as they tore through his apartment just as easily as he could feel the ghostly pains of claws cutting through the flesh to the bone deep within his thigh.

It was miraculous that he was still among the living.

Yet, knowing that, he could not get the picture of young Hadrian Potter out of his head, and Remus Lupin's words still rang in his thoughts.

_"'Tell me, __Julian, _how was it that you _missed _such obvious signs when you work with children like that every day?'" 

The question echoed in his mind, a relentless mantra that had him pulling at his hair in frustration. How _had _he missed the signs? He recalled hearing from Dudley that his cousin had ran away from home, and, at first, he had thought that maybe, just maybe, the youngest Potter was frightened of what his family would think if they had learned of his gifts. When he found him in Diagon Alley, and then the meeting between him and the Malfoys, things began to take a new turn.

Things he thought could never be _true _could possibly be the Light which shines in the Darkness. Yet if _this _truth was Light, than he knew that Light was not necessarily _good. _Mentally cursing himself, and Dumbledore, he sank into his couch as a shiver crept down his spine. Madam Pomfrey had assured him the curse had not caught, but he felt that the darkness in a werewolf's bite went beyond the transferring of human to beast.

Pushing his plate aside, glancing at the letter on his desk, he wondered what would happen now. He could not ask Severus anything, not with the fact that the man was at the Malfoys. That thought alone helped him relax, put him at ease; knowing that Severus Snape was keeping an eye on the Malfoys, making sure Harry was fine, was the only thing which lessened the pain in his heart. It was the only way he knew if the child he failed was alright, if he was adjusting, and he only hoped that Albus was correct - _'The Malfoys will not use Hadrian. They may be Dark, but blood means everything to them. They will not abuse a child in any form. It goes against their customs. It goes against their purpose, and their goals for strong generations of magic.'_

* * *

Tom slowed, crimson-violet eyes scanning the multiple paths twisting around him. It vaguely reminded him of a muggle picture, one based of Relativity, and he idly glanced at the stairwell that twisted off the side and up the wall until the steps were over his head facing him. Even after fifty years, there was no answer to his question on why one of the Malfoy Elders would have a maze with _that thing _in it. While it was fascinating to see the laws of physics, and gravity, defied...it was often disconnecting. Especially considering the fact that _he _was upside down.

One of the many reasons he had never favored Quidditch. He would rather have his feet on the ground, and be standing right-side-up.

"My Lord," He glanced over at the voice, and found himself face-to-face with an upside-down Severus Snape standing in a doorway with a rather green tint to his naturally, or unnaturally in some cases, pallid skin. Gesturing the Potions Master to continue, Snape swallowed, and then continued, "If I may be so bold, could we relocate to a more _sound _room?"

"It would be a pleasure," Tom went down the steps towards his own doorway, but from the looks on Severus's face, he assumed his motions was not the same from another's perspective. Inwardly, he noted that he would have to see that _this _room was either warded away, without access, or destroyed in the entirety. Finding a group of giggling, laughing children running along the walls and ceiling, and capturing them, was something of a living nightmare. "I will be to my study soon. Meet me there."

_Now, where is my little, green-eyed ward?_

A dark grin spread across his face.

* * *

Seasons changed.

Harry ran through the yard, twisting around to wave at Tom as the elder followed him out of Malfoy Manor. His king smiled, a rare sight that barely lifted the edges of his mouth, and inclined a head. A laugh bubbled out of his throat, the sound no longer evoking pain like it first had during the first few weeks of his learning of Snake. The serpent's tongue was fluid, and, as he raced up to his friend, he hissed, _"Are we going into town? Are we? Are we?"_

"Calm yourself," Tom ran his hand through his hair, eyes more violet than red, as he murmured, "We are waiting for Lucius and the others to finish their preparations. You have outgrown your robes. Do you remember the rules?"

Harry stuck out a lip, pouting, as he replied in a sulky hiss, _"Do not stray from your side, nor from Lucius's or Severus's. To do so means no desert, and no playtime tonight."_

_"Good. Now take my hand. The others are here." _Harry grinned, and grasped the elegant hand in his as he whipped around to beam at the young Malfoy standing across from him. Draco smirked, his own hand caught between his parents, and Severus stood directly behind him. As they walked closer to the gates at the front, Severus moved to walk next to his friend, to Tom, as he spoke, "Dumbledore will be aware of this outing, as will the Order and the Ministry. Are you certain now is the time?"

_"Time?" _The hiss slipped past Harry's lips unbidden, and he tugged on Tom's hand to get his friend's attention as he asked, _"Time for what?"_

"Leave the worries, child." Tom squeezed his hand, a gleam flashing through his eyes, and Harry felt his brow furrow as he asked, _"The Dursleys' won't be there, will they? Or Mr. Figg? I'm not going back, right? I'm staying with you, right? Right, Tom?"_

His pulse was pounding, and, as he tightened his grip on the elder's hand, he kept his emerald gaze on the violet-flashing-red above him. Tom tugged him into his side, voice low as he hissed, _"If they try to take you, they will feel Nagini's bite."_

_"Promise?"_

_"I swear it on my blood and bones, Harry. No one will touch you without my say." _Something flashed in Tom's gaze, dark and merciless, and Harry smiled up at his friend and protector. Tom would protect him. Tom was a just king, a knight in armor who rescued him from Privet Drive, and would stop any who tried to lock him in a tower like the king did to Sleeping Beauty. His knight, and the fierce dragon guarding the princess from anyone who was unworthy, were one in the same in the end. _"Now, come child, let us be off."_

In a flux of power, Harry found himself back in Diagon Alley. Those who stood in the way when they arrived, Harry pitied them.

They wouldn't get any playtime once Tom was finished with them.

* * *

He had seven children, and, as a father, he knew when something was about to get rough. A protective parent, he mused, was one of the most deadly foes someone could cross. Arthur knew this well, and, as he stood on the sidelines, he had a gut feeling that tackling the Malfoys, Severus, and the violet-eyed man over a small, bright-eyed child was going to be a costly mistake.

_Hadrian James Potter, _Albus had told him the child was called. _Harry as Julian explained. He did not like the 'formal' name._

Off to the side, he saw Minerva hesitate. The woman's face was stern, and her voice had been one of the main to try and sway Albus from this reckless course of action. There were others scattered about, some faces he did not know, but the tense atmosphere was unmistakable. As he watched, he heard Minerva hiss, "Albus, this has gone far enough. Look at him! The boy is fine!"

The dark look on Albus's face, however, told Arthur all he needed to know. Whatever thoughts he had before, whatever dark magic he has suspected, the man looked at the group standing across from them, their wands drawn and two small boys in the middle, was gone and was replaced with utter certainty that he was right. Arthur glanced at his wife, and Molly, being the woman she was, gave a dark glare at the headmaster. Before she could speak, even as her mouth was opening, Albus's voice broke the silence which had made them all uneasy.

"So all questions are cleared." The purple-robbed, white-haired man slowly stepped forward with a light smile on his face. Albus was eyeing the violet-eyed male, a young man whose eyes were slowly turning red, as he murmured, "I see that you have returned, Tom. How good it is to see you."

Arthur wasn't sure what happened, but, without warning, Hadrian James Potter's magic flared.

And Albus Dumbledore was hurtled backwards.


End file.
